What a lovely night it was, and how the stars stealing one by one into the sky seemed like breathing entities looking down upon us.  It seemed that night as if they heard what Louis said, and you would not wonder had you seen the youthful fervor of this dark-eyed youth; this strange combination of man and boy.  When with him I felt awed into silence, and though his thoughts always brought response from my soul, yet did I hesitate for expression, language failing me utterly.  How many beautiful thoughts he uttered this night, and how strangely I answered him!  He was young and had not learned the lesson of waiting, if effort of his own could hasten the development of any loved scheme.  I cannot, will not try to tell you all that he said, but he spoke so positively, and commanded as it were an answer from my very soul.  He told me of his love for painting, of his great desire to do something worthy of the best, as he expressed it.

“And my first picture is to be yourself,” he said; “you shall speak on canvas.  You think yourself so plain; oh! you are not plain, Miss Emily; I love you, and you are my wild flower, are you not?  Speak to me, call me your Louis!  Love me, as I do you.  Ah! if you did not love me I could not stay here till to-morrow—­you think me young and presumptuous—­you say I do not know myself and I will change—­I will not change—­I am not young—­I want great love, such as comes to me through your eyes, to help me—­and you love me—­you are my precious wild flower—­I shall live for you and my little mother.”

No word had escaped my lips, and now he paused, and looking at me, said: 

“Tell me if you do not love me!—­tell me, Emily.”

Why did I—­how could I answer him as I did—­so cold; my voice fell upon my own ear as I said slowly: 

“I don’t know, Louis—­you are so strange.”

What an answer!  He quivered and the tears came to his eyes; he dashed them aside and said: 

“How long shall I wait for you? say it now and help me; your spirit loves me; I can hear it speak to me.”

I thought for the moment he was crazed.  He divined my thought and said: 

“No, not crazy, but I want your help.”

“Oh, Louis!” I cried, “I don’t know, I am so ignorant—­why was I born so? don’t treat me unkindly, you are dear to me, dear, but I can’t talk.”

“Never, never say so again.”

He seemed taller as he paused in his walk, and released the firm hold he had kept of my arm, said slowly: 

“God waits for man, and angels wait, and I will wait, and you will tell me sometime—­say no word to my little mother”—­and he kissed my forehead, a tear-drop falling on me from his eyes, and we walked silently and slowly home.

I sought my room, and crying bitterly, said to myself, “Emily Minot must you always do the very thing you desire not to do?”