conversation, and he drooped again. On the door step she paused a moment,
and hung her head pensively, as if moved by a reminiscence. The youth had
hurried away some strides. Margarita looked after him. His arms were
straightened to his flanks, his hands clenched, and straining out from
the wrist. He had the aspect of one tugging against the restraint of a
chain that suddenly let out link by link to his whole force.

'Farina!' she called; and wound him back with a run. 'Farina! You do not
think me ungrateful? I could not tell my father in the crowd what you did
for me. He shall know. He will thank you. He does not understand you now,
Farina. He will. Look not so sorrowful. So much I would say to you.'

So much was rushing on her mind, that her maidenly heart became unruly,
and warned her to beware.

The youth stood as if listening to a nightingale of the old woods, after
the first sweet stress of her voice was in his ear. When she ceased, he
gazed into her eyes. They were no longer deep and calm like forest lakes;
the tender-glowing blue quivered, as with a spark of the young girl's
soul, in the beams of the moon then rising.

'Oh, Margarita!' said the youth, in tones that sank to sighs: 'what am I
to win your thanks, though it were my life for such a boon!'

He took her hand, and she did not withdraw it. Twice his lips dwelt upon
those pure fingers.

'Margarita: you forgive me: I have been so long without hope. I have
kissed your hand, dearest of God's angels!'