—Ah! if you could but catch the sweet music of her voice!—
Well—well; and that time at length comes along. You have waited patiently and long. You have wrestled valiantly with your bashfulness—and, at last, you are the victor.
You speak to her, whose image has so long been haunting you. She replies to you. Her voice is like the low tones of a lute.
—Was there ever such joy?—
—Again. You just feel the slight weight of her hand upon your arm. Yet you think you cannot feel it, either. You wish she was heavier. You wish she was far more of a burden on your arm.
The lace-frills on either side of her face are snowy white; but not near so white as her face itself. Nothing could be whiter than that. You look hurriedly at it, and you greatly wonder while you fear.
Lean more on me for support! you say.
She throws up a grateful glance at you, but says nothing. Yet you read in that glance, as plainly as if it had been upon a printed page—
Thank you: I lean on you now all I can!—
But, how like a feather! How fearfully fragile! She leans on you with all her weight? Then is she scarce heavier than a shadow.—