it. I pretended
not to understand the badly hidden meaning of his metaphor. A little art
of this kind is feminine and excusable, even in a young girl dignified
with Society membership and a mission. I felt that he could appreciate
it. He did. Some people were below us on the sands. They paused to look
up as this noble creature handed me down those wooden steps. The effect
must have been artistical. My cloud-like skirts floated softly on the
zephyrs. My scarf streamed out like a banner. I am afraid the curve of
my boot might have been seen from below, for many admiring faces were
turned that way, and Mr. Burke cast his eye downward in a fugitive
manner.

At last we reached the sands, on which both the sun and waves were
beating luminously. By a ridge of white sand he paused.

"Shall we sit here?" says he, with tender questioning.

"Anywhere," says I, with sweet feminine complacency.

Then I dropped down on the sand ridge, and sweeping my skirts together,
cast a timid glance up and around.

That noble man was spreading a silk umbrella. There was a hitch in the
spring, and, such was his eager impatience to occupy the seat I had so
delicately suggested, that a real naughty word broke from his lips--a
word I, as a missionary, never could forgive, if it hadn't been the
proof of such loving impatience. As it was, like a recording angel, I
blotted it out of my memory with a forgiving sigh.

That refractory umbrella was hoisted at last, and its owner placed
himself on the sand beside me, holding it not seaward, but like a tent,
shading us two from the whole world, while the sun took care of itself.

"This," says he, "is a sweet relief. Don't you find it so, Miss Frost?"

I answered him with a sigh, soft, but audible.

"Yes, one can draw a full breath here," says he. "I was sure you would
enjoy it."

"I do, indeed," says I, playing with the sand in the innocence of my
heart.

Evidently embarrassed by deep feeling, he too began to sift the white
sand through his fingers, which came so near mine that they made me
catch my breath for fear he might clasp them. On the contrary, he gave
up the temptatious exercise, and throwing a generous restraint on
himself, began to talk metaphorically and metaphysically about many
things, especially about gathering maple-sap, of which he questioned me
tenderly, veiling the hidden meaning in his heart, by a seeming interest
in our trees.

He asked me, with infinite meaning in his voi