She has fallen forwards into his embrace; he holds her little trembling form against his heart—a posture to which she submits, chiefly because it affords her an opportunity of hiding her face upon his shoulder.
"Never any more!" she repeats, mechanically, and then there is silence, save for the thrush, that trills ever his high tender lay. Presently Essie stirs, and whispers, with uneasiness, "St. John!"
"Well?"
"You won't tell any one, will you?"
"Tell them what?—that you and I are going to be married? By this time to-morrow I hope to have told every one I meet: I am not so selfish as to wish to keep such good news to myself."
"No—I don't mean that; but you won't tell any one about—about—about that?" This is the nearest approach she can bear to make to the abhorred theme.
"Esther!"
"And you'll promise never to joke about it?"
"Never, by the holy poker!"
"And you won't twit me with it when we quarrel?"