"Anywhere," answered Margaret; "we shall walk the long walk together."
"No, dear one, not together, that cannot be—but not apart," said Angus, his voice trembling.
"Do you know, Angus," said Margaret after a pause, "I had often read about how engagements should be announced. And no one, almost no one knew that you loved me. And after that first time when you told me you loved me—and before you told me that other—I so often used to lie awake and think about how ours should be announced. For I think that is the sweetest thing in a girl's life, the announcement I mean—no I don't mean that—the sweetest thing is what has to be told. And now it is all told—and just to think it was done in a church and before all those people. And now they all know—and I am so glad! No girl ever had it done like this before."
"Yes, glad—and proud—aren't you?"
But there was no response, save the old, old silent eloquence of love, when lip speaks to lip its tender tale, scorning the aid of words.
"Let us go this way," said Margaret at length.
"Where does it lead to?"
"You shall see," she answered; "come away"—and together, still hand in hand, they walked on.
"Let us rest here, Angus." He threw himself on the grass at her feet.