s possible:

"Oh, yes--the thorn; it is a pretty vine; take care, or it will hurt
your hand."

Verty feels astounded at his own boldness, but says, with his dreamy
Indian smile:

"Oh, no, I don't want the thorn--the rose!--the rose!"

Redbud understands that this is only a paraphrase--after the Indian
fashion--for her own name, and blushes again.

"We--were--speaking of cousin Lavinia," she says, hesitatingly.

Verty sighs.

"Yes," he returns.

Redbud smiles.

"And I was scolding you for replying to papa's question," she adds.

Verty sighs again, and says:

"I believe you were right; I don't think I could have told them what
we were talking about."

"Why?" asks the young girl.

"We were talking about you," says Verty, gazing at Redbud tenderly;
"and you will think me very foolish," adds Verty, with a tremor in
his voice; "but I was asking Mr. Roundjacket if he thought you
could--love--me--O, Redbud--"

Verty is interrupted by the appearance of Miss Lavinia.

Redbud turns away, blushing, and overwhelmed with confusion.

Miss Lavinia comes to the young man, and holds out her hand.

"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, just now, Verty," she says,
"pardon me if I made you feel badly. I was somewhat nettled, I
believe."

And having achieved this speech, Miss Lavinia stiffens again into
imposing dignity, sails away into the house, and disappears, leaving
Verty overwhelmed with surprise.

He feels a hand laid upon his arm;--a blushing face looks frankly and
kindly into his own.

"Don't let us talk any more in that way, Verty, please," says the
young girl, with the most beautiful frankness and ingenuousness; "we
are friends and playmates, you know; and we ought not to act toward
each other as if we were grown gentleman and lady. Please do not; it
will make us feel badly, I am sure. I am only Redbud, you know, and
you are Verty, my friend and playmate. Shall I sing you one of our old
songs?"

The soft, pure voice sounded in his ears like some fine melody of
olden poets--her frank, kind eyes, as she looked at him, soothed and
quieted him. Again, she was the little laughing star of his childhood,
as when they wandered about over the fields--little children--that
period so recent, yet which seemed so far away, because the opening
heart lives long in a brief space of time. Again, she was to him
little Redbud, he to her was the boy-playmate Verty. She had done all
by a word--a look; a kind, frank smile