of a sudden, on the Sunday.

Aggie's memory retained every detail of that blessed day--a day of spring
sunshine, warm with the breath of wall-flowers and violets. Arthur,
walking in the garden with her, was so mixed up with those delicious
scents that Aggie could never smell them afterwards without thinking of
him. A day that was not only all wall-flowers and violets, but all Arthur.
For Arthur called first thing before breakfast to bring her the Browning,
and first thing after breakfast to go with her to church, and first thing
after dinner to take her for a walk.

They went into the low-lying Queningford fields beside the river. They
took the Browning with them; Arthur carried it under his arm. In his
loose, gray overcoat and soft hat he looked like a poet himself, or a
Socialist, or Something. He always looked like Something. As for Aggie,
she had never looked prettier than she looked that day. He had never known
before how big and blue her eyes were, nor that her fawn-colored hair had
soft webs of gold all over it. She, in her clean new clothes, was like a
young Spring herself, all blue and white and green, dawn-rose and radiant
gold. The heart of the young man was quick with love of her.

They found a sheltered place for Aggie to sit in, while Arthur lay at her
feet and read aloud to her. He read "Abt Vogler," "Prospice," selections
from "The Death in the Desert" (the day being Sunday); and then, with a
pause and a shy turning of the leaves, and a great break in his voice,
"Oh, Lyric Love, Half Angel and Half Bird," through to the end.

Their hearts beat very fast in the silence afterwards.

He turned to the fly-leaf where he had inscribed her name.

"I should like to have written something more. May I?"

"Oh yes. Please write anything you like."

And now the awful question for young Arthur was: Whatever should he write?
"With warmest regards" was too warm; "kind regards" were too cold; "good
wishes" sounded like Christmas or a birthday; "remembrances" implied that
things were at an end instead of a beginning. All these shades, the
warmth, the reticence, the inspired audacity, might be indicated under the
veil of verse. If he dared--

"I wish," said Aggie, "you'd write me something of your own." (She knew he
did it.)

What more could he want than that she should divine him thus?

For twenty minutes (he thought they were only seconds), young Arthur lay
flat on his stomach and brooded over the Browning. Ag