"You angel!" he answered, breathing softly, and he pressed her hand. He divined that her dainty spirit was in the mood when all it asked of him was his presence, and that speech would be a discord.
They were passing now beyond the confines of Westfield and the influence of its colony into a more distinctly rural country—stretches of wilder uplands, now pastures, now woods, alternating with small farm buildings around which the fields lay stubbly with the party-colored remains of the harvest, and redolent of autumn odors. Presently they reached a village with a shady main street and old-fashioned white-faced houses, most of the treasures of which, quaint andirons and other picturesque relics of a simpler past, had been sent to market owing to the lure of fancy prices. Then more fields, and at length they branched off from the main road along a winding lane, on either side of which the view was partially shut off by clusters of bushes gay with the colors of the changing season. The perfume of the wild flowers was in the air, and everywhere the blazon of the golden-rod was visible.
They had exchanged an occasional word of comment on the sights and sounds of the varying landscape, yet wholly impersonal. Now once more she turned toward him with the same lustrous smile, and said, like one exalted:
"Love and the world are mine to-day."
Thrilled by this confession of faith, he looked into her eyes ardently, and encircling her waist sought to draw her toward him.
"And they will be mine when you are mine. You must be mine; you shall be mine."
She freed herself from his grasp. "Patience, my friend." Her voice had the tantalizing exultation of an elusive fay. "What should I gain by that? Would you love me any more than you do now?"
"Yes, yes indeed," he answered, disregarding logic.
"I doubt it much," she asserted archly. "But wait."