“Come, let us have tea, or we shall be late for church.” “Charlie has put the rose in very becomingly,” said my aunt. “Yes, it will do very nicely,” responded my cousin, peeping at herself in the glass. Then, while she made the tea, she said, “I feel too tired to go to church to-night, mamma.” “Very well, my dear.” “Why, what has tired you?” asked her papa. “I don’t know, unless it is the heat.” “The garden will be deliciously cool, this evening,” I observed. “I think I’ll stay at home too, and keep my cousin company.” “Do,” said my aunt. My uncle sipped his tea, and appeared to take no notice. But Conny exclaimed, “Oh, Charlie, please don’t stop at home for me.” “Ah, you dear little flirt!” I thought; “it needs no Solomon to understand the English of your ‘don’ts.’” “I should be sorry to be thought irreligious,” I said: “but I can’t help saying that I would rather stay at home this evening, than go to church.” Did Conny pout? Did a little frown gather upon Conny’s white forehead? I couldn’t be sure--she turned her head so quickly aside. But even had I been sure that she pouted and frowned, I should never have doubted for a moment that her choosing not to go to church, was a hint for me to remain with her. Come, Eugenio, you are a judge of human nature--tell me, what did that little episode of the rosebud mean? What, my friend, but the delicate proem, the crimson-coloured preface, the sweet, the graceful, the womanly initialing of the Arcadian scene she wanted me to rehearse with her? She said no more, but drank her tea in silence, looking at the clock now and then, and sometimes out of window, until her mamma having left the room to put on her things, whilst her papa read a letter he had taken out of his pocket-book, she sidled up to me and whispered, with her eyes full of sweetness, and with the tenderest blush on her fair face, “I wish, Charlie, you wouldn’t stop at home for me.” “Are you very deeply concerned for my spiritual welfare?” “I am sure mamma would rather have you with her. She is _so_ fond of you, you know.” “No living being could appreciate her kindness more than I do; but I would rather risk her displeasure than miss the chance of being with you alone.” In those ignorant days I used to think that a woman’s wishes were to be read backwards, like a witch’s prayers. Since then I have learned that this is not true. I gave Conny a smile to let her see that I thoroughly understood her, and heartily appreciated the delicate sense of embarrassment that made her anxious for me not to imagine, &c., and then praised the charming effect produced by the contrast of the red rosebud against her sunny hair. She said “Oh!” and “Ah!” and “Yes?” and “Indeed?” and grew very absent. “She is wondering,” I thought to myself, “whether I mean to propose this evening.”