* * * * *

“Oh what a lovely fern, such a nice little one too.  Do try and dig it up for me,” said Florence.

“I will try to do my best,” said Thornton; “I have got a knife.”  And down he went upon his knees, and soon extracted a little brittle bladder, which he handed to the young lady, saying, “I hope it will live.  Do you think it will?”

“Oh, yes,” she said.  “I can keep it here till we go home, and then plant it in my rockery, where they flourish nicely, as it is beautifully sheltered from the sun.”

“I wish it were rather a handsomer-looking thing,” said the young man, looking rather ruefully at the little specimen.

“I shall prize it for the sake of the giver,” she said, with a slight blush.  “But I am afraid you have spoilt your knife.”

“Oh, not at all.  Do let me dig up some more.”

“No, thank you; do not trouble.  See what a pretty bank of wild thyme.”

“Would you like to sit down upon it?  You know it smells all the sweeter for being crushed.”

“Well, it does really look most inviting.”  Florence sat down, saying as she did so, “How lovely the wild flowers are—­heather and harebells.”

“Let me gather some for you.”  He began plucking the flowers, which flourished in such profusion and variety that a nosegay grew in every foot of turf.  “When do you think of leaving Babbicombe?”

“In two or three days.”

“So soon!”

“Yes; for papa has to go back to attend to his Quarter Sessions.”

“I am very, very sorry you are going.  I had hoped you would stay much longer.  These three weeks have flown like three days.”

“Why, Mr. Thornton, I declare you are throwing my flowers away as fast as you gather them.”

“So I am,” he said.  “The fact is I hardly know what I am doing.”  The colour was blazing into his face, and his heart beating wildly.  “Florence,” he cried, flinging himself upon his knees beside her, “forgive me if I speak rashly or wildly—­I don’t know how to speak.  I don’t know what to tell you—­but I love you dearly, dearly, with my whole heart.  I cannot tell—­I hope—­I think you may like me.  Do not say no, I implore you.  If you do not like me to speak so wildly, tell me so; but don’t say you will not love me.  Tell me you will love me—­if you can.”

Florence was young, and was taken by surprise, or perhaps she might have stopped the young gentleman at once; but after all it is not unpleasant to a pretty girl to see a good-looking young lad at her feet and to listen to his passionate words of homage.  At length, when he seemed to come to a pause, she replied:  “Oh, Mr. Thornton, please, please do not talk so.  This is so sudden.  Our parents know nothing of this!”

“Do you love me—­tell me?”

“We are too young.  You really must not—­”

“It does not matter about being young.”

“Oh, do not speak any more.”