“Oh, I wanted to whisper it to you, to have you know; and I was unhappy because I knew you were,” she murmured.

“My poor letter in answer to yours I fear was rude and proud and unmanly.  What could I say?  The possibility that I could be more than a friend to you never occurred to me, and when Ida tried to persuade me that you did love me, her efforts were vain; I could hardly induce her to abandon the idea of writing you.”

“There is a blessed Providence in it all, Arthur; and in nothing more blessed than in bringing us together here, where we could meet and speak, with only the sunshine and this bright stream for witnesses.”

“And what a sweet little story of love and hope and joy it carries murmuring along!” said Bart, struck with the poetry of her figure.

“But we must not always stay here,” said the practical woman.  “We must go home, must not we, Prince?” addressing the horse, which had stood quietly watching the lovers, and occasionally looking about him.

“You have changed his name?” said Bart.

“Yes.  You see he is your horse, and I called him Prince Arthur the very day I received him, which was the day your letter came.  I call him Prince.  He is a prince—­and so is his namesake,” she added, playfully pulling his moustache.  “You don’t like that?” said Bart; “the moustache?  I can cut it away in a moment.”

“I do like it, and you must not cut it away.  Stand out there, and let me have a good look at you; please turn your eyes away from me—­there so.”

“You find me changed,” he said, “and I find you more lovely than ever,” rushing back to her.

“You spoilt my view, sir.”

“You will see enough of me,” he said, gaily.

“You are changed,” she went on, “but I like you better.  Now, sir, here is your horse.  I deliver you, Prince, to your true lord and master; and you must love him, and serve him truly.”

“And I have already dedicated you to your lady and mistress,” said Bart, “and you must forever serve her.”

“And the first thing you do, will be to carry Wilder down to my dear mother, with a letter—­how blessed and happy she will be!—­asking her to send up a carriage—­unless you have one somewhere?”

“Me?  I haven’t anything anywhere, but you.  A carriage brought me into this region, and I sent it back.  Keep and ride the Prince, as you call him; I can walk.  I’ve done it before.”

“You shall never do it again; if you do I will walk with you.  We will go to Wilder’s, and see Mrs. Wilder, who is a blessed woman, and who knew your secret, and knows mine; and Rose, who took me into her bed; and we will have some dinner, unromantic ham and eggs; and when the carriage comes, I will drive you to your mother’s, and then you shall drive me home—­do you understand?”

“Perfectly; and shall implicitly obey.  Do you know, I half suspect this is all a dream, and that I shall wake up in Albany, or Jefferson, or somewhere?  I know I am not in Chardon, for I could not sleep long enough to dream there.”