“What do you think of it?” Jack asked, as he ran the bow gently ashore and pulled in the oars.

“It is like fairyland.  It is too beautiful for words.”

Madge averted her eyes from his, and pushed back a tress of golden hair that had strayed from under her hat; she took off one glove, and dipped the tips of her fingers in the water.

“I wish I had brought a book,” she said.  “Why don’t you smoke?  You have my permission, sir.  But we must not stop long.”

Jack felt for his cigar-case and dropped it again.  The next instant he was beside the girl, and one arm encircled her waist.

“Madge, my darling!” he cried.  “Don’t you know—­can’t you guess—­why I brought you here?”

Her silence, the droop of her blushing face, emboldened him.  The old, old story, the story that was born when the world began, fell from his lips.  They were honest, manly words, with a ring of heartfelt passion and pleading.

“Have I surprised you, Madge?” he went on.  “Have I spoken too soon?  We have known each other only a short time, it is true, but I could not care more for you had we been acquainted for months or years.  I am not an impulsive boy—­I know my own heart.  I loved you from the day you came into my life.  I love you now, and will always love you.  I will be a good and true husband.  Have you no answer for me, dear?”

The girl suddenly raised her face to his.  Half-shed tears glistened in her eyes, but there was also a radiant look there which trilled his heart with unspeakable joy.  He knew that he had won her.

“Madge, my sweet Madge!” he whispered.

She trembled as his arm tightened about her waist.

“Jack, do you really, really love me?”

“More than I can tell you, dear.  Can you doubt me?  Have you nothing to say?  Do you think it so strange—­”

“Strange?  Yes, it is more than I dared to hope for.  Don’t think me unwomanly, Jack, for telling the truth, but—­but I do love you with all my heart.”

“Madge!  You have made me the happiest man alive!  God grant that I be always worthy of your affection!”

A bird began to sing overhead, and Jack thought it was the sweetest music he had ever heard, as he drew Madge to him and pressed a lover’s first kiss on her lips.  Side by side they sat there in the leafy retreat, heedless of time, while the afternoon sun drooped lower in the sky.  They had much to talk of—­many little confidences to exchange.  They lived over again the events of that brief period in which they had known each other.

“You have upset all my plans,” said Madge, with a pretty pout.  “I was going to devote my life to art, and become a second Rosa Bonheur or Lady Butler.”

“One artist in the family will be enough,” her lover answered, laughingly.  “But you shall continue to paint, dearest.  We will roam over Europe with our sketch-books.”

“Oh, how delightful!  To think of it—­my dreams will be realized!  I knew your work, Jack, before I knew you.  But I am so ignorant of the world—­even of the little world of London.”