It was Lucian who spoke next: "My dear, my dear." And their lips were
together again, and their arms locked together, each holding the other
fast. And then the poor lad let his head sink down on his sweethearts'
breast, and burst into a passion of weeping. The tears streamed down his
face, and he shook with sobbing, in the happiest moment that he had ever
lived. The woman bent over him and tried to comfort him, but his tears
were his consolation and his triumph. Annie was whispering to him, her
hand laid on his heart; she was whispering beautiful, wonderful words,
that soothed him as a song. He did not know what they meant.

"Annie, dear, dear Annie, what are you saying to me? I have never heard
such beautiful words. Tell me, Annie, what do they mean?"

She laughed, and said it was only nonsense that the nurses sang to the
children.

"No, no, you are not to call me Master Lucian any more," he said, when
they parted, "you must call me Lucian; and I, I worship you, my dear
Annie."

He fell down before her, embracing her knees, and adored, and she allowed
him, and confirmed his worship. He followed slowly after her, passing the
path which led to her home with a longing glance. Nobody saw any
difference in Lucian when he reached the rectory. He came in with his
usual dreamy indifference, and told how he had lost his way by trying the
short cut. He said he had met Dr. Burrows on the road, and that he had
recommended the path by the fields. Then, as dully as if he had been
reading some story out of a newspaper, he gave his father the outlines of
the Beit case, producing the pretty little book called _The Chorus in
Green_. The parson listened in amazement.