“Violet, rose, and cyclamen! take them all,” she cried merrily, and threw a rain of many-colored flowers on the laughing, upturned face of the young man. Then, while he bent to pick up one crimson bud which had fallen at his feet, she burst out into one of those old English songs her father had taught her:— “Rose and myrtle all are twining, In their beauty thus combining, To become a chaplet fair For my shepherd’s golden hair. Fa la! la! la! My Colin dear.” “Clearly,” quoth Maurice, with a smile, “this wreath is meant for me, for I have golden hair.” Helena smiled, and continued both her garland-weaving and her song. “If you ask who is my dearest, It is he who loiters nearest; And for him this chaplet fair Do I weave with flowerets rare. Fa la! la! la! My Colin dear.” “Better and better!” said the lover, mounting the steps. “I am nearest! I have yellow locks, so I decidedly am Colin dear!” They were now standing on either side of the altar, with the rainbow heap of flowers between them; and, despite Maurice’s boldness in thus coming so close to his goddess, he was now seized with a fit of shyness, which communicated itself to the sympathetic Helena, so they gazed with embarrassment at one another, tongue-tied, with burning cheeks. “Where is Zoe?” asked Maurice, breaking the awkward silence. “Zoe,” replied Helena demurely, “is assisting Dick to find more flowers.” “And, pray, what is Dick doing here?” “Aha! you must ask Zoe.” “I would rather ask you.” Helena glanced at him with a laugh, then suddenly flushed crimson, and sat down on the steps, with the white lap of her gown full of flowers. “I am no oracle to give answers,” she replied, carefully selecting some buds. “That means you are no goddess,” said Maurice, sitting down a step lower, and looking up into her charming face. “Well, I prefer you as a mortal maiden. But what about Colin’s wreath?” “I am weaving it now.” “Roses for love, myrtle for joy, violets for modesty. What a charming wreath!” “Ah, you know the language of flowers!” “I know what this wreath means—‘Modest love is a joy.’ Am I right?” “Yes—no—yes—that is—Oh dear me! Is it not a lovely day?” “Is it not a lovely face? Very lovely.” “I speak of the day.” “And I of you.” Decidedly Maurice was getting on capitally in the art of saying nothings which mean somethings, and Helena was woman enough to know what he was hinting at, yet also woman enough to indulge in a little coquetry. She had burnt her fingers with Caliphronas; yet, quite forgetful of the warning, began to tease Maurice with charming persistence. “Am I very lovely?” “You are as beautiful as Helen,” replied Maurice, rather taken aback at the directness of this question.