Her eyes sparkled in the sun,--a tress of her hair, ruffled by the
hay, escaped and flew like a little web of sunbeams against her
cheek. He looked at her moodily.

"You might go on with the song," he said,--"'Love is now a little
man--'"

"'And a very naughty one!'" she hummed, with a mischievous upward
glance.

Despite his inward vexation, he smiled.

"Say what you like, Cupid is a ridiculous name for a dove," he
said.

"It rhymes to stupid," she replied, demurely,--"And the rhyme
expresses the nature of the bird and--the god!"

"Pooh! You think that clever!"

"I don't! I never said a clever thing in my life. I shouldn't know
how. Everything clever has been written over and over again by
people in books."

"Hang books!" he exclaimed. "It's always books with you! I wish we
had never found that old chest of musty volumes in the panelled
room."

"Do you? Then you are sillier than I thought you were. The books
taught me all I know,--about love!"