“I believe it,” she replied.

“You believe it, yet you are not angry with me?  You hold my life in your hands yet will not bid me go?”

He bent over her, his handsome face was glowing, his dark eyes flashing fire.

“I could fancy myself in a dream,” he said; “it is too strange, too sweet to be true.  There must be some intoxication in these apple blossoms.  Dare I ask you one more grace?”

“I have not been very unkind,” she said.

“Will you let me sometimes see you?  I will not presume upon your kindness.  Your face is to me what sunshine is to flowers.  Do not turn its light from me.”

“You see me at the lessons,” she said.

“Pardon me, I do not.  I never dare to look at you; if I did, Miss Carleton would soon know my secret.  I am an artist, practiced to admire.  I may say what in others would be simple impertinence.  You look so beautiful, Miss Arleigh, with the sunlight falling on you through the apple blossoms.  Will you let me make a picture of you, just as you are now?  I could paint it well, for my whole heart would be in the work.”

“I am willing,” she said.

“And you will let me keep the picture when it is finished, and once or twice before the lovely summer fades you will come out here and see me again?”

“Yes,” she said, “I will come again.”

“I shall keep those few penciled words you sent me until I die,” he said, “and then they shall be buried with me.”

Allan Lyster was a wise general; he knew exactly when it was time to retreat.  He would fain have lingered by her side talking to her, looking in her lovely face, but prudence told him that he had said enough.  He looked across at the trees and signed to his sister, unseen and unknown to Miss Arleigh.  Adelaide, quick to take the hint, joined them at once.

“I shall not show you my sketch, Allan,” she said laughingly; “it will not show well by the side of yours.  Marion, we must go.  Have you accomplished my heart’s desire—­persuaded my brother to stay?”

“He did not want much persuasion,” she replied, suddenly remembering with surprise how little had been said about the matter.

“I hope Allan has made no blunder,” thought the sister; aloud she said, “I know it.  I knew that one look from you would do all that my prayers failed to accomplish.  We must go, Marion; it is time to re-enter the house.”

“Miss Arleigh,” said Allan Lyster, “when I wake to-morrow, I shall fancy all this but a dream.  Will you give me something to make me remember that it is indeed a happy reality?”

“What shall I give you?” asked the girl.

“You have held that spray of apple blossoms in your hand all the evening,” he said, “give me that.”

She laughed and held it out to him.

“Thank you,” he said; “now that you have touched it it ought not to die.”

“Do all artists talk like you, Mr. Lyster?”