The Argosy — page 25: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Sr a Edina. 15 beard ; but certain it was, that he especially attracted their attention ; somewhat of their curiosity. “What a strange-looking man!” exclaimed Alice, under her breath, when they had gone some distance. ‘ Did you not think so, William ?” “Queerish. Does he live here? I wonder if he is aware that he is trespassing ?” “Papa lets anyone come on the grounds that likes to,” replied Alice. “It’s a stranger. I never saw him before.” “Qh, it must be one of the Easter excursionists. Escaped from smoky London to enjoy a day or two of the pure air of the Kentish Wolds.” “ As you have done,” said she. “ As I have done. I only wish, Alice, I could enjoy it oftener.” The words and the tender tone alike bore a precious meaning to her ear. His eyes met hers, and lingered there. “T am getting on excellently well,” he continued. “By the end of this year, I make no doubt I shall be justified in—in quitting my cham- bers and taking a house. Perhaps before that.” “Look at that spray of hawthorn!” exclaimed Alice, darting to a hedge they were now passing, for she knew too well what the words im- plied. “ Has it not come out early! It is in full bloom.” “ Shall I gather it for you ?” “No. It would bea pity. It looks so well there, and everybody that passes by can enjoy it. Do you know, I never see the flowering hawthorn but I think of that good old Scotch song, ‘Ye banks and braes.’ I don’t know why.” “ Let us sit down here,” said he, as they came to a rustic seat amid the trees. ‘“ And now, Alice, if you would sing that good old song the charm would be perfect.” She laughed. “What charm?” “‘The charm of—everything. Of the day and hour, the white and pink may budding in the hedges, of the wild flowers we crush with our tcet, of the blue sky and the green trees, of the sunshine and the shade, of the singing birds and the murmuring leaves, and of—you.” Not another word from either of them just yet. William Stane had let his hand fall on hers. Her head was slightly turned from him, her cheeks were blushing, her heart was beating: it was again another _ interval of that most sweet and eloquent silence. Alice had taken off her hat, which hung by the strings from her arm, and her bright brown hair looked almost golden in the sunlight. ** Won't you begin, Alice? The little birds ‘ warbling through the flowering thorn’ are waiting to hear you. So am I.” And as if she had no power to resist his will, she began at once, without one dissenting murmur, and sang the song to the end.’ Save al comicbooks.com