Letty gave a little cry; two years! Her black woman twitched her sleeve.
“Miss Let, it's gittin' cole, honey.”
“(Don't, Flora.)—Alfred, two years! Oh, Alfred, that is an eternity. Why, I should be—I should be twenty!”
The lantern, set on a tombstone beside them, blinked in a snowy gust. Alfred covered his face with his hands, he was shaken to his soul; the little, gay creature beside him thrilled at a sound from behind those hands.
“Alfred,”—she said, faintly; then she hid her face against his arm; “my dear Alfred, I will, if you desire it—fly with you!”
Alfred, with a gasp, lifted his head and stared at her. His slower mind had seen nothing but separation and despair; but the moment the word was said he was aflame. What! Would she? Could she? Adorable creature!
“Miss Let, my feet done get cole—”
(“Flora, be still!)—Yes, Alfred, yes. I am thine.”
The boy caught her in his arms. “But I am to be sent away on Monday! My angel, could you—fly, to-morrow?”
And Letty, her face still hidden against his shoulder, nodded.