Beth filled the glass again, and handed it to him in silence, but no after-thought could atone for the discourtesy of his first refusal, and she looked in another direction, not even troubling herself to see whether he tried the water or not.
There was a rustic seat in the hollow of the bank, and he suggested that they should sit there a while before they returned. Beth acquiesced; and soon the sputter of the little spring bubbling into its basin, the chitter of birds in the branches above, the sunbeams filtering from behind through the leaves, the glint of the Beck below slipping between its banks, soundless, to the sea, enthralled her.
"Isn't this lovely?" she ejaculated.
"Yes, it's very jolly—with you," he said.
"You wouldn't like it so well without me?" Beth asked.
"No, I should think not," he rejoined. "And you wouldn't like it as well without me, I hope."
"No," Beth responded. "It makes it nicer having some one to share it."
"Now that's not quite kind," he answered in an injured tone. "Some one is any one; and I shouldn't be satisfied with anybody but you."
"Well, but I am satisfied with you," Beth answered dispassionately.
He took her hand, laid it in his own palm, and looked at it. It was a child's hand as yet, delicately pink and white.