“Sweetheart,” I said, “before this weather clears——”
“It is clearing.”
“We will give it time. Before this weather clears, I must be across the valley and fetching a circuit for the drovers’ road, if you can teach me when to hit it.”
She withdrew one of her hands. It went up to the throat of her bodice, and came forth with my packet of notes.
“Good Lord!” said I: “if I hadn’t forgotten the money!”
“I think nothing teaches you,” sighed she.
She had sewed them tightly in a little bag of yellow oiled silk; and as I held it, warm from her young bosom, and turned it over in my hand, I saw that it was embroidered in scarlet thread with the one word “Anne” beneath the Lion Rampant of Scotland, in imitation of the poor toy I had carved for her—it seemed, so long ago!
“I wear the original,” she murmured.
I crushed the parcel into my breast-pocket, and, taking both hands again, fell on my knees before her on the stones.
“Flora—my angel! my heart’s bride!”