As Putnam completed these reminiscences they entered the cemetery-gate, and the shadow of its arch seemed to fall across the young girl's soul. The bashful color had faded from her cheek and the animation from her eye. Her face wore a troubled expression: she walked slowly and looked about at the gravestones.
Putnam stopped talking abruptly, but presently said, "You have not asked me for your fuchsias."
She stood still and held out her hand for them.
"I thought you might be meaning to let me keep them," said Putnam. His heart beat fast and his voice trembled as he continued: "Perhaps you thought that what I said a while ago was said in joke, but I mean it in real earnest."
"Mean what?" she asked faintly.
"Don't you know what I mean?" he said, coming nearer and taking her hand. "Shall I tell you, darling?"
"Oh, please don't! Oh, I think I know. Not here—not now. Give me the flowers," she said, disengaging her hand, "and I will put them on Henry's grave."
He handed them to her and said, "I won't go on now if it troubles you; but tell me first—I am going away to-morrow, and sha'n't be back till October—shall I find you here then, and may I speak then?"
"I shall be here till winter."
"And may I speak then?"