He had no cause to blush now!

BOOK FOURTEENTH.

HAPPY DAYS.

CHAPTER I.

OWNERS OF THE BEAUTIFUL.

The world and all its inhabitants had rolled round to another fragrant spring.  The buds were bursting in city parks and gardens, and birds twittered in the dusty air.  Every happy heart said to itself, “This green, and these opening roses, this music of the birds, this shining day, this temperate breeze, are all mine, and made for me.”

There were two young persons, one sweet morning in May, who experienced a delightful sense of that universal proprietorship of the Beautiful.  They were a couple who appeared to be expressly made for each other; for the young man was tall and broad chested, the young woman short, and delicately formed; his eyes were black, hers blue; he was calm, resolute, deliberate in every movement, she quick and impulsive.  There never was a clearer case of mutual fitness by virtue of entire dissimilarity.

Any one could see that they loved each other, and that, if they were not married, they were engaged—­for her little hand was entwined most trustingly about his muscular arm, and she leaned toward him with that gentle inclination which seems to be a magnetism of the heart.

“Are you happy, my own Pet?” asked the young man, looking proudly down at the beautiful face beside him.

“Happy! dear Bog—­for I will always call you Bog.  You know I am!” Her blue eyes filled with tears.

If excess of happiness had not choked her voice, she would have asked Bog if he thought she could be other than perfectly happy in the love of her adopted mother, in the love of her dear uncle—­who was at once a father and brother in his tender solicitudes—­in the love of that darling old gentleman, Myndert Van Quintem, and in one other love, which it was not necessary to mention.

But Bog knew that she was supremely happy, and he needed no such elaborate answer.  He also knew that he possessed the first, fresh, and only love that she had ever cherished.  All the events in connection with her Greenpoint adventure, both before and after it, proved that she had never loved young Van Quintem, and that her sentiments toward him were only those of gratitude for his supposed saving of her life, and an innocent, childlike confidence in his good intentions.

The lovers sauntered down the street slowly, as if they would protract the walk.  Not another word was said.  Passing a garden full of roses, Bog reached through the fence, and plucked a full-blown white one and handed it to Pet.  She eagerly took it, and pinned it to the bosom of her dress.

“Here we are, dearest; and I am almost ashamed to show myself to uncle, for I am such a stranger,” said Bog, breaking the silence, as they stood at the foot of the memorable bell tower.  “Hallo, Uncle Ith!” he shouted, looking upward.