"Perhaps," said I, "the gentle passion might be awakened with patience ... and practice." "Ah, no," she said. "May I touch your hand?" Indolently fanning, she extended her fingers. I took them in my hands. "I am about to begin," I said. "Begin," she said. So, her hand resting in mine, I told her that she had robbed the skies and set two stars in violets for her eyes; that nature's one miracle was wrought when in her cheeks roses bloomed beneath the snow; that the frosted gold she called her hair had been spun from December sunbeams, and that her voice was but the melodies stolen from breeze and brook and golden-throated birds. "For all those pretty words," she said, "love still lies sleeping." "Perhaps my arm around your waist--" "Perhaps." "So?" "Yes." And, after a silence: "Has love stirred?" "Love sleeps the sounder." "And if I touched your lips?" "Best not." "Why?" "I'm sure that love would yawn." Chilled, for unconsciously I had begun to find in this child-play an interest unexpected, I dropped her unresisting fingers. "Upon my word," I said, almost irritably, "I can believe you when you say you never mean to wed." "But I don't say it," she protested. "What? You have a mind to wed?" "Nor did I say that, either," she said, laughing. "Then what the deuce do you say?" "Nothing, unless I'm entreated politely." "I entreat you, cousin, most politely," I said. "Then I may tell you that, though I trouble my head nothing as to wedlock, I am betrothed." "Betrothed!" I repeated, angrily disappointed, yet I could not think why. "Yes--pledged." "To whom?" "To a man, silly." "A man!" "With two legs, two arms, and a head, cousin." "You ... love him?" "No," she said, serenely. "It's only to wed and settle down some day." "You don't love him?" "No," she repeated, a trifle impatiently. "And you mean to wed him?" "Listen to the boy!" she exclaimed. "I've told him ten times that I am betrothed, which means a wedding. I am not one of those who break paroles." "Oh ... you are now free on parole." "Prisoner on parole," she said, lightly. "I'm to name the day o' punishment, and I promise you it will not be soon." "Dorothy," I said, "suppose in the mean time you fell in love?" "I'd like to," she said, sincerely. "But--but what would you do then?" "Love, silly!" "And ... marry?" "Marry him whom I have promised." "But you would be wretched!" "Why? I can't fancy wedding one I love. I should be ashamed, I think. I--if I loved I should not want the man I loved to touch me--not with gloves." "You little fool!" I said. "You don't know what you say." "Yes, I do!" she cried, hotly. "Once there was a captain from Boston; I adored him. And once he kissed my hand and I hated him!" "I wish I'd been there," I muttered.