Then they sit down on a great stone and rest, though she protests she is
not tired. She can walk for hours.

Now he ought to tell her all that is in his heart. If the world stands
thousands of years there will never be such a golden opportunity again.
She breaks off a bit of yarrow and sticks it in her belt. How
beautifully the lashes droop over her eyes, deepening and softening the
tint, until it looks like a glint of heaven!

"Oh, we ought to go on," she says presently; and with a dainty smile and
motion, she rises. Ah, if she knew what he is wild to utter!

They turn their steps homeward. A wood-robin in a thicket sings,
"Sweet, sweet, I love you, I l-o-v-e you," with a maddening, lingering
cadence.

Why is he not as brave as the bird? Are there any choicer, more
exquisite words in which to say it?

They come to a little stream. "Oh, just down here is Kissing Bridge,"
she says, with a kind of girlish gleefulness.

She had made her father tell the old Dutch story one evening, when they
were all sitting on the stoop. And as they go on, she, with a sort of
eager, heedless step, as if she was not walking on his heart, tells
about Stephen, and how he jumped out of the carriage and gathered a
great bunch of roses for her. They have reached the spot. The stream has
shrunken. You could step over it.

"They were just there." She indicates the spot with a pretty gesture of
her head. "But there are no wild-roses now;" and a soft sigh escapes
her, as she turns to him, and their eyes meet.

"Are there none?" he asks, his eyes drinking in the sudden radiance. For
if ever dainty, delicate, ethereal wild-roses bloomed, they are in her
cheeks; and oh, what are her scarlet lips that have meant to answer, and
are mysteriously tranfixed with the rarest sweetness!

He kisses her--once, a dozen times. There is no one near. They own the
city,--the whole world, for love is Lord of all.

He slips her hand in his arm. Its tremble thrills every nerve in his
body. He experiences the overwhelming joy of possessorship, for she _is_
his.

"My darling little Nan;" and his voice is unsteady with emotion.

He has rechristened Baby Stevie's pet name; but it has never sounded so
enchanting before.

Then they walk on in delicious silence. Another bird sings in a drowsy
afternoon tone,--

"Sweet, sweet, I love you, I l-o-v-e you."

They glance at each other, and both translate it. Her cheeks are redder
than wild-roses now; and her dimp