"

"Yes, I do. But I please you as I am. Is that impertinent?"

"Yes," said Margaret, gravely.

"It's your fault, then; you've spoiled me. When have you done one thing
or said one thing through all this long summer which was not
extraordinarily kind? Nobody in the world, Margaret, has ever dreamed of
being as devoted to me as you have been. And if that's impertinent
too--the saying so--I can't help it; it's true."

Margaret made no reply to this statement, which had been made without
the least vanity; it had been made, indeed, with a detached impartiality
which was remarkable, as though the girl had been speaking of some one
else.

Rosalie watched their two figures go down the path out of sight. A few
minutes later Mr. Moore made a brief appearance, flying with extended
pole across the glade like a man possessed. But he had seen that she was
alone, and he therefore returned, after he had not succeeded in catching
his prey; he sat down beside her, and asked her if she had read the
Westover Manuscript.

Margaret and Garda reached the path's end--it ended in a wood--and found
Lucian sketching.

"Ah-h-h! curiosity!" he said, as they came up.

"Yes," answered Garda, seating herself on the ground beside him, and, as
usual, taking off her hat; "I never was so curious in my life. Show me
your sketch, please."

He held it towards her.

She looked at him as he bent from his camp-stool, she did not appear to
be so curious as her previous statement had seemed to indicate. She
smiled and fell into her old silence again as he returned to his work,
that silence of tranquil enjoyment, leaving Margaret to carry on the
conversation, in case she should wish for conversation.

Apparently Margaret wished for it. She, too, was resting in the shade;
she spoke of various things--of the white bird they had seen sitting on
its nest, which had been constructed across the whole top of a small
tree, so that the white-bosomed mother sat enthroned amid the green; of
the song of the mocking-birds, which had made a greater impression upon
her than anything in Florida; and so on.

"Excuse my straying answers," said Lucian, after a while. "However,
painting is not so bad as solitaire; did you ever have the felicity of
conversing with a friend (generally a lady) while a third person is
engaged at the same table with that interesting game? Your lady listens
to you with apparent attention, you are led on, perhaps, to talk your
best, when sud