fore, a nodding hat
guarded her fair face jealously.

Nearer and nearer she came, glanced carelessly at me who stood
bare-headed in the sun's glare, was passing, and glanced again,
hesitated for one agonising moment, and then, as our eyes met, shot
out a kindly flash of remembrance, followed by the sweetest of little
blushes.

"So you are here again," she said, as she gave her hand, and her
voice made exquisite music in my ear.

"Again?" I said, slowly releasing her fingers as a miser might part
with treasure. "Again? I have been here every Sunday since."

"Dear me! is it so long ago? Only three weeks after all.
I remember, because--"

The fleeting hope possessed me that it might be some recollection in
which I had place, but my illusion was swiftly shattered.

"Because," the pitiless sentence continued, "mother was not well that
evening; in fact, she has been ill ever since. So it is only three
weeks."

"Only three weeks!" I echoed.

"Yes," she nodded. "I have not seen the river for all that time.
Is it changed?"

"Sadly changed."

"How?"

"Perhaps I have changed."

"Well, I hope so," she laughed, "after that wetting;" then, seeing an
indignant flash in my eyes, she added quickly, "which you got by so
kindly bringing back my boat."

"You have not been rowing to-day?"

"No; see, I have been gathering the last of the May-blossom. May is
all but dead."

"And 'Flower of the May'?"

"Please do not remind me of that foolish song. Had I known, I would
not have sung it for worlds."

"I would not for worlds have missed it."

Again she frowned and now turned to go. "And you, too, must make
these speeches!"

The world of reproach in her tone was at once gall and honey to me.
Gall, because the "you too" conjured up a host of jealous imaginings;
honey, because it was revealed that of me she had hoped for better.
And now like a fool I had flung her good opinion away and she was
leaving me.

I made a half-step forward.

"I must go now," she said, and the little hand was held out in token
of farewell.

"No! no! I have offended you."

No answer.

"I have offended you," I insisted, still holding her hand.

"I forgive you. But, indeed, I must go." The hand made a faint
struggle to be free.

"Why?"

My voice came hard and unnatural. I still held the fingers, and as I
did so, felt the embarrassment of utter shyness pass over the bridge
of our two hands and settle chokingly upon my heart.