The "Ogre" had sent a note to his nieces, asking them for dinner on a certain June evening. And strange to relate it was Nancy who delayed the proceedings. When she finally joined her admiring family she was deliciously conscious that a dress of pale gold-colored organdie, and a broad-brimmed hat trimmed with delicate blue flowers, were about the most becoming things she could possibly wear. And she was not entirely ignorant of the fact that she could be very, very pretty when she wanted to. It was pleasant to register this interesting fact on other people also, Miss Bancroft and the Ogre, and—well, George Arnold, for instance.
It was partly on account of the gathering darkness, no doubt, or partly because Alma wanted to look at the summer-house while Nancy and George wanted to continue to look at the roses, but however it was—well, there they were—Mr. Arnold and Miss Prescott, absorbedly looking at the roses. Or perhaps they weren't even looking at the roses.
"Now, look here, Nancy, if you'll be a good girl, and say what I tell you to, I'll give you something nice. It's not a candy, either."
"Wh-what do you want me to say?" gasped Nancy, suddenly feeling quite terrified.
"First of all, put your hand in mine, so," he took her hand gently, and then lifted it to his lips. "And now say—'I love you, George!'"
"Oh—I c-can't!" whispered Nancy, feebly.
"Yes, you can. Try it, dear."
"Well, don't you, Nancy?" For the first time he sounded very grave, and his eyes looked anxious. Then somehow Nancy felt quite calm and happy and brave, she answered him, honestly:
"Yes, I do. I love you, George."
She felt him take her left hand and single out the third finger. Then she felt something cool slipped on it. She gasped. The first diamond she had ever owned caught and flashed back a moonbeam.