as there, walking beside
him, under the scented willow-bushes. Where, why, and whither he did not
ask to know. She was with him--with him; and he seemed to tread on the
summer air. He had no doubt as to the nature of his own feelings for her,
and here was such an opportunity for declaring them as might never occur
again. Surely now, if ever, he would be eloquent! Thoughts of poetry
clothed in words of fire must spring unbidden to his lips at such a
moment. And yet somehow he could not find a single word to say. He beat
his brains, but not an idea would come forth. Only that idiotic
cracker motto, which haunted him with its meagre couplet:

"My heart is thine.
Wilt thou be mine?"

Meanwhile they wandered on. The precious time was passing. He must at
least make a beginning.

"What a fine night it is!" he observed. But, oh dear! that was a
thousand times balder and more meagre than the cracker motto; and not
another word could he find to say. At this moment the awkward silence
was broken by a voice from a neighbouring copse. It was a nightingale
singing to his mate. There was no lack of eloquence, and of melodious
eloquence, there. The song was as plaintive as old memories, and as
full of tenderness as the eyes of the young girl were full of tears.
They were standing still now, and with her graceful head bent she was
listening to the bird. He stooped his head near hers, and spoke with a
simple natural outburst almost involuntary.

"Do you ever think of old times? Do you remember the old house, and the
fun we used to have? and the tutor whom you pelted with horse-chestnuts
when you were a little girl? And those cracker bonbons, and the motto
_we_ drew--

'My heart is thine.
Wilt thou be mine?'"

She smiled, and lifted her eyes ("blue as the sky, and bright as the
stars," he thought) to his, and answered "Yes."

Then the bonbon motto was avenged, and there was silence. Eloquent,
perfect, complete, beautiful silence! Only the wind sighed through the
fragrant willows, the stream rippled, the stars shone, and in the
neighbouring copse the nightingale sang, and sang, and sang.

* * * * *

When the white end of the cracker came into the young lady's hand, she
was full of admiration for the fine raised pattern. As she held it
between her fingers it suddenly struck her that she had discovered what
the tutor's fragrant smoke smelt like. It was like the scent of
orange-f