A hand like a white wood-blossom
You lifted, and waved and passed
With head hung down to the bosom,
And pale, as it seemed at last. 
—­Swinburne.

Du Meresq in indignant dismay at the abduction of Cecil on the day of the picnic stood awhile silent and bitter, deaf to the impatience of the children, who wanted to be off.  While thus irresolute, he chanced to glance at Bluebell, whose countenance betrayed an agony of suspense.  The entreating look in her eyes she was probably unconscious of, for the child had not yet learned to command her face.  Bertie yielded to it by a sort of magnetism, and flung himself into the boat where she and Mrs. Rolleston were already seated, but remained silent and thoughtful as they floated monotonously along.  His sister was equally occupied with uneasy reflections, and Bluebell seemed as spell-bound as the rest.  For one soul deeply moved and agitated often affects by electricity another in a receptive condition.  Does not the atmosphere in a tempestuous mood thrill and disturb our nervous system?

She was next to Bertie, and noted that, though concealed by rugs and waterproofs, his hand did not seek hers as of yore.

They were joined on Long Island by the rest of the party, and all kept pretty much together at first.  There was luncheon to be unpacked, the fire to be made and some fish to be grilled in a frying-pan.  Du Meresq partially shook off his gloom, and assisted the children in their preparations; and, from the noise that ensued, a stranger would not have suspected the mental disquietude of three of the number.

After luncheon, Bluebell wandered away in search of wild flowers, the children hunted for cray-fish, Miss Prosody spudded up ferns, and Mrs. Rolleston drew from her pocket her favourite point-lace.

Du Meresq, hungering for that exclusively masculine solace, tenderly brought forth the pipe of his affections, nestling next his heart.  There was too much air on the beach, and he sauntered away in search of a more sheltered situation in which to woo his divinity.

Some “spirit in his feet” must have led him “who knows how,” for ere long he found himself seated on a log beside Bluebell.  I cannot tell what spell that syren had used to attract his footsteps so unerringly, for, little accustomed as he was to resist female influence, in thought at least Du Meresq was loyal enough to Cecil.

He made no attempt to kiss her, as he would have done before in a similar situation, but talked a while in that half-fond, half-bantering manner that had misled the inexperienced child.  The sun poured its level rays upon them, and a little brown snake, with a litter of young, crawled from beneath the log.  This occasioned a hasty change of quarters, and they found another seat o’ershadowed by a tangle of blackberries.  It was very secluded and still, and here, with her whole soul, in her eyes, Bluebell abruptly asked Bertie her dreaded question.