There Walter showed her where a brook bubbled clear
from the fountain-head; by its brink, blue veronicas grew, and tall
yellow loosestrife, and tasselled purple heads of great English
eupatory. Bending down to the stream he picked a little bunch of
forget-me-nots, and handed them to her. Dolly pretended
unconsciously to pull the dainty blossoms to pieces, as she sat on
the clay bank hard by and talked with him. "Is that how you treat
my poor flowers?" Walter asked, looking askance at her.
Dolly glanced down, and drew back suddenly. "Oh, poor little
things!" she cried, with a quick droop of her long lashes. "I
wasn't thinking what I did." And she darted a shy glance at him.
"If I'd remembered they were forget-me-nots, I don't think I could
have done it."
She looked so sweet and pure in her budding innocence, like a
half-blown water-lily, that the young man, already more than
two-thirds in love, was instantly captivated. "Because they were
forget-me-nots, or because they were MINE, Miss Barton?" he asked
softly, all timorousness.
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