“In the parlour?” he asks, with a laugh.

“No!”

“Up in the loft, then?”

“No, nor there.”

“Then it’s the little room at the back.”

“No, no!” cries the girl, all confused.  “Not there, indeed it’s not.”

The young man laughs.  “I can’t guess any more.  But it’s cruel of you not to tell.”

And there again, mark the slyness of him, thinks the girl looking on.  Anyone else would have laughed out loud and said, “Now, I know!” and the girl would have blushed.

“Well, we’re friends now, real friends, aren’t we?” says he, after a while.

“’Tis early yet, for sure.  But if so, what then?”

“Why, I was but thinking—­if we were friends, I’d ask you—­no, I won’t ask yet.”

“You can ask if you like, ’twill do no harm,” says the girl, curious to hear.

“Only this—­if anyone has ever—­ever pressed your hand.”

“No,” says the girl, with a blush.  “I’d never let them.”

There again, so neatly put, thinks the looker-on.  And how nice and frank and handsome he looks.

“Now, I wonder if that’s true,” says he.  “But I’ll soon see.  Give me your hand a minute.”

“What for?”

“Oh, I can read it, and find out all sorts of things.”

“You?”

“Yes.  Don’t believe it?  But you dare not try.”

“Ho!  Dare not, indeed!” And she gives him her hand.

Now what’s going to happen, thinks the looker-on.

“H’m.  It’s true, by the look of things,” says the young man seriously.  “No one has ever pressed your hand.  But down there under the window—­there’s more than one that’s stopped to look at your flowers.”

“How do you—­Oh, you don’t know really, you’re making it all up.”

“Sh!  I’m telling your fortune.  Listen!  But what’s this I see?  Well, I’d never have thought....”

“What—­what is it?” asks the girl anxiously.

“What it is I dare not say.  Only I’d never have thought it.”

“Oh—­you only say that because you can’t find anything proper to say at all.”

“Shall I tell you what it is, then?” asks he, looking her straight in the eyes.

“Yes—­if you can.”

“Right.  But you mustn’t be angry if I do.”  His voice falls to a whisper.  “Look—­look there!  He’s coming—­this very night!”

“He—­who?” asks the girl uneasily.

“He—­the one that you’ve been waiting for—­the one that is to—­press your hand.”

“It’s not true!” cries the girl.  “I’ll never let him!”

“Sh!  I can only say what it says there.  He will come, be sure of that.  At midnight, or thereabouts.  And he will not beg and pray and ask as the others do, only knock at your window three times, softly, but firmly—­and then you’ll know it’s the right one, and no other....  But now I must go.  Good-night, Pansy.”

And with a wave of his cap he hurries out.