“What question did I evade?  I answered like an encyclopedia!” Dick cried, immensely satisfied with his own readiness.

“That convicts you; an encyclopedia has nothing about living people.”

“Oh, yes; the new ones do.”  Dick was now very near her as she stood contemplating the bees, swarming in the comb.  “O Rosa—­Rosa, you know I love you, and you know I can never love anybody else.  Why will you pretend not to understand me?  I don’t want you to marry me now, but by and by, when I shall have made a name as a soldier, or—­or something,” he added in painful turbulence of joy and fear over the great words—­which he had been racking his small wits to fashion for weeks past, and, now that they were spoken, were not nearly so impressive as he had intended they should be.

“My dear Richard, you are a perfect boy—­a very delightful boy, too, and I am extremely fond of you—­oh, very, very fond of you—­but you really must not make love to me.  It isn’t proper,” and Rosa glanced into his eyes with a tender little gleam, that gave more encouragement than rebuff—­for it came into her mind, in a moment, that it was not a time to hurt the bright, eager love—­so winning, if boyish.

“Nonsense, Rosa, it is perfectly proper; everybody makes love to you; Jack makes love to you, and he is as good as engaged—­” But here it suddenly flashed in Dick’s mad head that he was meddling, and he stopped short.  Rosa had turned upon him with a flash of such scorn, such indignant pain, that he cried: 

“No, no; I don’t mean that; but you know fellows do make love to you, and why mayn’t I?”

She flirted away from him too angry or mortified to speak.  He could not see her face, for she pulled the ample breadth of the hat-brim down, which served at once as a veil to shut out her visage and a sweeping sort of funnel to keep him far from her side, as she tripped determinedly to the pleasant group of clean, whitewashed cabins, where the negroes abode.  Poor Dick, vexed with himself—­angry at her for being irritated-waited in the hot sun until she had ended her commands, and when she came out to return he repentantly sidled up, imploring pardon in every movement.  She couldn’t resist the big, pleading blue eyes, and said, quite as if there had been deep discussion on the point: 

“I don’t think you mean to be a bad boy.”

“I’m not a boy, I’m a soldier.  It isn’t fair in you to call me a boy.”

“You’re not a girl.”

“If I were I wouldn’t be so heartless as some I know.”

“And if I were a boy I wouldn’t be so silly as some I know.”

“Yes, I think Southern boys are quite soft.”

“Come, sir, my brother was a Southern boy.”

“Yes, but he always lived North, and is like us.”

“Jackanapes!”

“Dear Rosa.”

“How dare you, sir?”

“Oh, just as easy, I dare do all that becomes a man—­who dares do more is none.  You are Rosa, and you are dear—­”