"Nay, nay, sister dear, weep not," at length said the squire, tenderly raising her head and leading her homeward. "All is not lost that is in danger. And so that you really have lost your hard little heart to my noble, glorious friend, I'll take care that it is soon recovered—or at any rate another one quite as good. Come, come, cheer up! All will go well."
The squire, although not usually rated as a prophet, predicted rightly for once; for the very next day saw young Walter Willie at Sweetbriar Lodge, with a face as handsome and happy as the morning. Hortensia was ill, and must not be disturbed; and at this information his features suddenly became overcast, as you may have seen a spring sky by a thick cloud, springing up from nobody knows where. However, the squire entered directly after, and whispered a few words to his guest, which seemed to restore in a measure the brightness of his look.
"And you really think, then, that I may hope?"
"Nay, my friend, you may do as you like about that. All men may hope, you know Shakspeare says. But I tell you that Hortensia has fallen in love with your foolish face—it's just like her!—and that's all about it. Come in and take some breakfast. Oh, I forgot—you've no appetite. Of course not. Well, you'll find some nice fresh dew in those morning-glories yonder, and I will rejoin you in a minute. We 'll make a day of it."
That evening the moon shone a million times brighter, the sky was a million times bluer, and the nightingale sung a million times sweeter than ever before. At least so thought the beautiful Hortensia and her artist-lover, as they strolled, arm-in-arm, through the woody lawn that skirted the garden of Sweetbriar Lodge, and held sweet converse of immortal things by gazing into each other's eyes. And so ends our veracious history of the Pic-Nic in Olden Time.