Both of us are rather silent. Yes, though we
have eight months' arrears of talk to make up, though it seemed to me
before he came that in a whole long life there would scarce be time for
all the things I had to say to him, yet, now that we are reunited, we
are stalking dumbly along through the withered white grass, pallid from
the winter storms. Certainly, we neither of us could say any thing so
well worth hearing as what the lark, in his most loud and godly joy, is
telling us from on high. Perhaps it is the knowledge of this that ties
our tongues.

The sun shines on our heads. He has not much power yet, but great
good-will. And the air is almost as gentle as June. We have left our own
domain behind us, and have reached Mrs. Huntley's white gate. Through
the bars I see the sheltered laurestines all ablow.

"May I wait for you here?" say I, with diffident urgency, reflecting
hopefully, as I make the suggestion, on the wholesome effect, on the
length of the interview that the knowledge of my being, flattening my
nose against the bars of the gate all through it, must necessarily have.

Again he looks down, as if unwilling to meet my appealing eyes.

"I think not, Nancy," he answers, reluctantly. "You see, I cannot
possibly tell how long I might be obliged to keep you waiting."

"I do not mind waiting at all," persist I, eagerly. "I am not very
impatient; I shall not expect you to be very quick, and" (going on very
fast, to hinder him from the second refusal which I see hovering on his
lips), "and it is not at all cold; just now you yourself said that you
had felt many a chillier May-day, and I am so warmly wrapped up, pet!"
(taking hold of one of his fingers, and making it softly travel up and
down the fur of my thick coat).

He shakes his head, with a gesture unwilling, yet decided.

"No, Nancy, it could not be! I had rather that you would go home."

"I have no doubt you would!" say I, turning sharply and huffily away;
then, with a sudden recollecting and repenting myself, "May I come back,
then?" I say, meekly. "Come and fetch you, I mean, after a time--any
long time that you like!"

"_Will_ you?" he cries, with animation, the look of unwilling refusal
vanishing from his face. "Would you _like_? would not it be too much
trouble?"

"Not at all! not at all!" reply I, affably. "How soon, then?" (taking
out my watch); "in half an hour?"

Again his face falls a little.

"I think it must be longer than _that_, N