"I see," she replied, coloring. "He must have been a splendid fellow."
"He was," I said.
"Dear Letitia!" murmured Cousin Dove, gazing thoughtfully at the wilted flower she held. The wood which had been musical with voices was strangely silent now. It was something more than a mere stillness. It was like a spell, for I could not break it, though I tried. Dove, too, was helpless. There was no wind—I should have known had one been blowing—yet the boughs parted above her head, and a crown fell shining on her hair!—her hair, those straying tendrils of it, warm and ruddy and now fired golden at that magic touch—her brow, pure as a nun's, beneath that veiling—the long, curved lashes of her hidden eyes—her cheeks still flushed—her lips red-ripe and waiting motionless.
She raised her eyes to me!—a moment only, but my heart leaped, for in that instant it dawned upon me how all that vision there—flesh, blood, and soul—was just arm's-length from me!
It was—I know.