He stood still, holding the strings of her sunbonnet in either hand. Elizabeth gathered breath, or courage, and went on.
"A little while ago I was grieving myself to think that you did not know me — now, I am very much ashamed to think that you do." —
He did not move, nor she.
"I know I am not worthy to have you look at me. My only hope is, that you will make me better."
The bonnet did not hide her face this time. He looked at it a little, at the simplicity of ingenuous trouble which was working in it, — and then pushing the bonnet a little back, kissed first one cheek and then the lips, which by that time were bent down almost out of reach. But he reached them; and Elizabeth was obliged to take her answer, in which there was as much of gentle forgiveness and promise as of affection.
"You see what you have to expect, if you talk to me in this strain," said he lightly. "I think I shall not be troubled with much more of it. I don't like to leave you in this frame of mind. I would take you to Mountain Spring in the boat — if I could bring you back again."
"I could bring myself back," said Elizabeth. They were going down the hill; in the course of which, it may be remarked, Winthrop had no reason to suppose that she once saw anything but the ground.
"I am afraid you are too tired."
"No indeed I am not. I should like it — if there is time."
"Go in less time that way than the other."