He turned, looking from end to end of the large room; they were
quite alone.
"Polly," he whispered, "I believe you do love me."
For a little time she made no answer.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head; "that is, I--I do not think
I love you."
"Then why have you come to find me?"
"Because--because you did not come to find me," she answered,
glancing down at the toe of her pretty shoe.
She turned impatiently and stood by an open window. She was
looking out upon a white orchard. Odours of spring flower and
apple blossom were in the soft wings of the wind. Somehow they
mingled with her feeling and were always in her memory of that
hour. Her arm moved slowly and a 'kerchief went to her eyes.
Then, a little tremor in the plume upon her hat Trove went to her
side.
"Dear Polly!" he said, as he took her hand in his. Gently she
pulled it away.
"I--I cannot speak to you now," she whispered.
Then a long silence. The low music of a million tiny wings came
floating in at the window. It seemed, somehow, like a voice of the
past, with minutes, like the bees, hymning indistinguishably.
Polly and Trove were thinking of the same things. "I can doubt him
no more," she thought, "and I know--I know that he loves me.
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