Redbud, training up a drooping vine, replied, laughing: 

“Oh, no—­I was only jesting.  Don’t mind my nonsense.  Look at that pretty morning-glory.”

Verty looked at Redbud, as if she were the object in question.

“You will hurt your hand,” he said,—­“those thorns on the briar are so sharp; take care!”

And Verty grasped the vine, and, no doubt, accidentally, Redbud’s hand with it.

“Now I have it,” he said; and suddenly seeing the double meaning of his words, the young man added, with a blush and a smile, “it is all I want in the world.”

“What? the—­oh!”

And Miss Redbud, suddenly aware of Mr. Verty’s meaning, finds her voice rather unsafe, and her cheeks covered with blushes.  But with the tact of a grown woman, she applies herself to the defeat of her knight; and, turning away, says, as easily as possible: 

“Oh, yes—­the thorn; it is a pretty vine; take care, or it will hurt your hand.”

Verty feels astounded at his own boldness, but says, with his dreamy Indian smile: 

“Oh, no, I don’t want the thorn—­the rose!—­the rose!”

Redbud understands that this is only a paraphrase—­after the Indian fashion—­for her own name, and blushes again.

“We—­were—­speaking of cousin Lavinia,” she says, hesitatingly.

Verty sighs.

“Yes,” he returns.

Redbud smiles.

“And I was scolding you for replying to papa’s question,” she adds.

Verty sighs again, and says: 

“I believe you were right; I don’t think I could have told them what we were talking about.”

“Why?” asks the young girl.

“We were talking about you,” says Verty, gazing at Redbud tenderly; “and you will think me very foolish,” adds Verty, with a tremor in his voice; “but I was asking Mr. Roundjacket if he thought you could—­love—­me—­O, Redbud—­”

Verty is interrupted by the appearance of Miss Lavinia.

Redbud turns away, blushing, and overwhelmed with confusion.

Miss Lavinia comes to the young man, and holds out her hand.

“I did not mean to hurt your feelings, just now, Verty,” she says, “pardon me if I made you feel badly.  I was somewhat nettled, I believe.”

And having achieved this speech, Miss Lavinia stiffens again into imposing dignity, sails away into the house, and disappears, leaving Verty overwhelmed with surprise.

He feels a hand laid upon his arm;—­a blushing face looks frankly and kindly into his own.

“Don’t let us talk any more in that way, Verty, please,” says the young girl, with the most beautiful frankness and ingenuousness; “we are friends and playmates, you know; and we ought not to act toward each other as if we were grown gentleman and lady.  Please do not; it will make us feel badly, I am sure.  I am only Redbud, you know, and you are Verty, my friend and playmate.  Shall I sing you one of our old songs?”