After supper the men sat talking in the
stable door, beyond which, on the hay, they were to sleep that
night. But Trove stood a long time with the girl, whose name was
Polly, at the little gate of the widow.
They seemed to meet there by accident. For a moment they were
afraid of each other. After a little hesitation Polly picked a
sprig of lilac. He could see a tremble in her hand as she gave it
to him, and he felt his own blushes.
"Couldn't you say something?" she whispered with a smile.
"I--I've been trying to think of something," he stammered.
"Anything would do," said the girl, laughing, as she retreated a
step or two and stood with an elbow leaning on the board fence.
She had on her best gown.
It was a curious interview, the words of small account, the
silences full of that power which has been the very light of the
world. If there were only some way of reporting what followed the
petty words,--swift arrows of the eye, lips trembling with the
peril of unuttered thought, faces lighting with sweet discovery or
darkening with doubt,--well, the author would have better
confidence.
Their glances met--the boy hesitated.
"I--don't think you look quite as lovely in that dress," he
ventured.
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