of the _Gloire de Dijon_ rose; only now excitement had suffused her
cheeks with the tints of that same rose--that red so unlike the bloom on
other faces in vanished days; so tender and delicate and precious above
all tints in nature!

"I know," she spoke, "how you were grieving for me, that you were pale
and dejected. Oh, how strange you should love me so much!"

"Strange, darling--that word again! It is the one sweetness and joy of
life. And are you not glad to be loved?"

"Oh, I cannot tell you how glad; but am I not here in your arms to show
it? When I heard that you had gone to the wood I did not wait, but ran
here as fast as I could. Do you remember that evening on the hill, when
you vexed me with questions, and I could not understand your words? Now,
when I love you so much more, I can understand them better. Tell me,
have I not done as you wished, and given myself to you, body and soul?
How thirty days have changed you! Oh, Smith, do you love me so much?"

"I love you so much, dear, that if you were to die, there would be no
more pleasure in life for me, and I should prefer to lie near you
underground. All day long I am thinking of you, and when I sleep you are
in all ray dreams."

She still continued gazing into my face, those happy tears still shining
in her eyes, listening to my words; but alas! on that sweet, beautiful
face, so full of changeful expression, there was not the expression I
sought, and no sign of that maidenly shame which gave to Genevieve in
the ballad such an exquisite grace in her lover's eyes.