That was in the early autumn,
and this was in late spring, and the light in her face was as glowing as
then. A remembrance of the scene came to the minds of both, and the girl
gave a little laugh.
"Well, well, Carnac," she said gaily, her cheek flushing, her eyes warm
with colour: "well, I sent you away with flowers. Did they bring you
luck?" She looked him steadily in the eyes.
"Yes, they brought me a perfect remembrance--of one who has always been
to me like the balm of Gilead."
"Soothing and stimulating, eh?" she asked, as she put the flowers on the
table and gave him her hand--no, she suddenly gave him both hands with a
rush of old-time friendship, which robbed it of all personal emotion.
For a moment he held her hands. He felt them tremble in his warm clasp,
the delicate, shivering pulsation of youth, the womanly feeling. It was
for an instant only, because she withdrew her fingers. Then she caught
up an apple from the dish she had brought in, and tossed it to him.
"For a good boy," she said. "You have been a good boy, haven't you?"
"I think so, chiefly by remembering a good girl."
"That's a pretty compliment--meant for me?"
"Yes, meant for you. I think you understand me better than anyone else."
He noticed her forehead wrinkle slightly, and a faint, incredulous smile
come to her lips.
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