"They were such pudgy little boys," she says, with a laugh in which there is only a remembered mirth. "They were like some of Irving's descriptions. You wouldn't expect them to grow up into such fine-looking men, now, would you? I think Peter is almost handsome." It gives him a little twinge. He was jealous of Peter awhile ago; but he admits bravely that Peter is very good-looking. And here are some poor willows. Oh, the lovely shrubbery that is neglected and dying! "After all, it _is_ the people who give the charm to places,--the loving care, the home delight. But no one could keep it up. Property gets too valuable, and taxation is too high; and there are so many poorer people who must have homes." These sententious bits of wisdom he considers utterly charming. She has caught them from John. Then they sit down on a great stone and rest, though she protests she is not tired. She can walk for hours. Now he ought to tell her all that is in his heart. If the world stands thousands of years there will never be such a golden opportunity again. She breaks off a bit of yarrow and sticks it in her belt. How beautifully the lashes droop over her eyes, deepening and softening the tint, until it looks like a glint of heaven! "Oh, we ought to go on," she says presently; and with a dainty smile and motion, she rises. Ah, if she knew what he is wild to utter! They turn their steps homeward. A wood-robin in a thicket sings, "Sweet, sweet, I love you, I l-o-v-e you," with a maddening, lingering cadence. Why is he not as brave as the bird? Are there any choicer, more exquisite words in which to say it? They come to a little stream. "Oh, just down here is Kissing Bridge," she says, with a kind of girlish gleefulness. She had made her father tell the old Dutch story one evening, when they were all sitting on the stoop. And as they go on, she, with a sort of eager, heedless step, as if she was not walking on his heart, tells about Stephen, and how he jumped out of the carriage and gathered a great bunch of roses for her. They have reached the spot. The stream has shrunken. You could step over it. "They were just there." She indicates the spot with a pretty gesture of her head. "But there are no wild-roses now;" and a soft sigh escapes her, as she turns to him, and their eyes meet. "Are there none?" he asks, his eyes drinking in the sudden radiance. For if ever dainty, delicate, ethereal wild-roses bloomed, they are in her cheeks; and oh, what are her scarlet lips that have meant to answer, and are mysteriously tranfixed with the rarest sweetness! He kisses her--once, a dozen times. There is no one near. They own the city,--the whole world, for love is Lord of all. He slips her hand in his arm. Its tremble thrills every nerve in his body. He experiences the overwhelming joy of possessorship, for she _is_ his. "My darling little Nan;" and his voice is unsteady with emotion.