to say go, or stay," she replied, hesitatingly. "It is a
serious thing to interfere with a man's life."

"I have dared already more than I ever dreamed of daring. I have told
how rashly I have ventured to raise my eyes to the sun--you know my
presumption. I have dared to kneel at your feet, and tell you that you
are the star of my idolatry, the source of all my inspiration. You know
that, yet you will not punish my presumption by telling me to go?"

"I will not," she replied, gently.

"Then you are not angry with me? I did not know life held such happiness
as that. You know I love you? You are not angry?"

A sudden breeze stirred the apple blossoms, and they fell like a shower
on her fair head.

"You must pardon me if I am beside myself with joy. Looking on your
face, I grow intoxicated with your beauty, as men do with rare wines.
Ah, lady! in the years to come and in the great world people may love
you; but you shall look, and look in vain, for a love so true, so deep,
so devoted as mine."

"I believe it," she replied.

"You believe it, yet you are not angry with me? You hold my life in your
hands yet will not bid me go?"

He bent over her, his handsome face was glowing, his dark eyes flashing
fire.

"I could fancy myself in a dream," he said; "it is too strange, too
sweet to be true. There must be some intoxication in these apple
blossoms. Dare I ask you one more grace?"

"I have not been very unkind," she said.

"Will you let me sometimes see you? I will not presume upon your
kindness. Your face is to me what sunshine is to flowers. Do not turn
its light from me."

"You see me at the lessons," she said.

"Pardon me, I do not. I never dare to look at you; if I did, Miss
Carleton would soon know my secret. I am an artist, practiced to admire.
I may say what in others would be simple impertinence. You look so
beautiful, Miss Arleigh, with the sunlight falling on you through the
apple blossoms. Will you let me make a picture of you, just as you are
now? I could paint it well, for my whole heart would be in the work."

"I am willing," she said.

"And you will let me keep the picture when it is finished, and once or
twice before the lovely summer fades you will come out here and see me
again?"

"Yes," she said, "I will come again."

"I shall keep those few penciled words you sent me until I die," he
said, "and then they shall be buried with me."

Allan Lyster was a wise general; he knew exactly whe