He looked at her fixedly for a moment.  Then he said simply, “Yes, I remember,” and began at once to sing.  But he did not sing “Twickenham Ferry” to day.  He would have given all he was worth, when he had sung one line, if he could have changed it into a college song, a negro melody,—­anything.  For this was what he found himself singing: 

    “How can I bear to leave thee? 
    One parting kiss I give thee,
    And then, whate’er befalls me,
    I go where Honor calls me.”

She would not hide her face in her hands, but she might turn it away:  how was he to know that she was not watching with breathless interest the young couple straying along the bank, arm closely linked in arm, in the sweet June sunshine?

“Thank you,” she said faintly, when the last trembling note had died away:  “that was—­very pretty.”

“I am glad you liked it,” he said, with quiet irony in his tones.

And then there was another alarming pause.  Anything was better than that, and she began to talk almost at random, telling of various laughable things which had occurred among her scholars, laughing herself, somewhat shrilly, at the places where laughter was due.

He sat silent, unsmiling, through it all until they stepped from the boat.  Then he said, “It is really refreshing to see you in such good spirits.  I had always understood that even the happiest fiancee was somewhat pensive and melancholy as the day of fate drew near.”

“You have no right to speak to me in that way,—­in that tone,” she cried, with sudden heat.

He bowed low, saying, “Pardon me; I am only too well aware that I have no rights of any kind so far as you are concerned.  But it is impossible to efface one’s self entirely.”

“Now you are angry with me,” she said forlornly; “and I don’t know what I have done.”

“I angry with you!” he cried.  “Oh, Rosamond!  Rosamond!”

“I am glad if you are not,” she said,—­“very glad; but I must go—­the professor—­” And she sped up the bank before he could speak again.

IV.

The professor came early to the seminary that evening, but Rosamond was ready for him, dressed in a gown of some soft white fabric which he had noticed and praised.  She had roses in her hair, at her throat, in her belt, but the bright, soft color in her cheeks out-shone them all.

She began, almost as soon as they had exchanged greetings, to talk about her father, asking the professor how long he had known him, and what Dr. May had been like as a young man.

“Very shy and retiring,” he replied.  “I think that was the first link in our friendship:  we both disliked society, and finally made an agreement with each other to decline all invitations and give up visiting.  We found that everything of the kind interfered materially with advancement in our studies.  But your father had already met your mother several times when we made this agreement.  Their tastes were very similar, and her quiet, tranquil manner was extremely pleasant to him,—­for, as you know, he was somewhat nervous and excitable,—­so he claimed an exception in her favor; and, after two years of most pleasing intellectual companionship, they were married.  It was a rarely complete and happy union.”