“I should like it more than I can say, and I shall be sure to come to-morrow evening if it is fine. But if it is at all damp or unpleasant you must not come. In that case another evening will do. And now won’t you give me some flowers?” She nodded, with another little smile, and began to pick some of the June lilies, carefully selecting the most perfect among them. He watched her lithe, graceful motions with delight; every movement seemed poetry itself. She looked like a very incarnation of Spring--as if all the shimmer of young leaves and glow of young mornings and evanescent sweetness of young blossoms in a thousand springs had been embodied in her. When she came to him, radiant, her hands full of the lilies, a couplet from a favourite poem darted into his head-- “A blossom vermeil white That lightly breaks a faded flower sheath, Here, by God’s rood, is the one maid for me.” The next moment he was angry with himself for his folly. She was, after all, nothing but a child--and a child set apart from her fellow creatures by her sad defect. He must not let himself think nonsense. “Thank you. These June lilies are the sweetest flowers the spring brings us. Do you know that their real name is the white narcissus?” She looked pleased and interested. “No, I did not know,” she wrote. “I have often read of the white narcissus and wondered what it was like. I never thought of it being the same as my dear June lilies. I am glad you told me. I love flowers very much. They are my very good friends.” “You couldn’t help being friends with the lilies. Like always takes to like,” said Eric. “Come and sit down on the old bench--here, where you were sitting that night I frightened you so badly. I could not imagine who or what you were. Sometimes I thought I had dreamed you--only,” he added under his breath and unheard by her, “I could never have dreamed anything half so lovely.” She sat down beside him on the old bench and looked unshrinkingly in his face. There was no boldness in her glance--nothing but the most perfect, childlike trust and confidence. If there had been any evil in his heart--any skulking thought, he was afraid to acknowledge--those eyes must have searched it out and shamed it. But he could meet them unafraid. Then she wrote, “I was very much frightened. You must have thought me very silly, but I had never seen any man except Uncle Thomas and Neil and the egg peddler. And you are different from them--oh, very, very different. I was afraid to come back here the next evening. And yet, somehow, I wanted to come. I did not want you to think I did not know how to behave. I sent Neil back for my bow in the morning. I could not do without it. I cannot speak, you know. Are you sorry?” “I am very sorry for your sake.” “Yes, but what I mean is, would you like me better if I could speak like other people?” “No, it does not make any difference in that way, Kilmeny. By the way, do you mind my calling you Kilmeny?”