other man in the wide world just for me."

I tried very hard to reply; I tried to tell him that he was impertinent and vain, but the words would not rise to my lips. On the contrary, I had the utmost possible difficulty in keeping myself from bursting into tears, for I knew well that I loved him, if not yesterday, most certainly to-day. There was something about him which appealed to my whole heart, to which my heart went out. Still, I sat silent, declining to speak—perfectly happy, perfectly contented, afraid to break my bliss by the uttering of a single word.

As I sat so, with my shoulder within an inch or two of his, I began to consider the violets, just as though he had given them to me. I had bought those violets yesterday, and they were full of him; I had brought some back with me to the Park to-day, but they were already slightly faded. Not that our hopes were faded—far from that—only the violets. I considered the violets—his special flowers—just as though he had plucked them and given them to me; they seemed to be mixed up with him, and I believed that all my life long I should love with a tender sort of passion the smell of violets, and hate, beyond all words, the smell of roses, and in particular of white roses.

"What are you thinking about, Heather?" he asked.

"Of you," I answered.

He glanced around him to right and left.

"There is no one looking," he said, drawing his chair two or three inches nearer; "may I—may I hold your hand?"

"I cannot help it," I replied, and I spoke in a low, uncertain manner.

He smiled, took my hand, and held it very tightly between both his own.

"You have a very little hand, Heather," was his remark, and he held it yet tighter.

"You are squeezing it," I said; "you are quite hurting me."

"That is the last thing I would do," was his reply. He loosened the pressure of his hand over mine the merest fragment. After a minute of silence, he said:

"Of course, as you allow me to hold your hand, things must be all right."

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