“Do you mean that you think me pretty?” asked Emily directly.
“Why, it hadn’t occurred to me to wonder whether you were pretty or not. Do you think a star should be pretty?”
Emily reflected.
“No,” she said finally, “the word doesn’t suit a star.”
“I perceive you are an artist in words. Of course it doesn’t. Stars are prismatic—palpitating—elusive. It is not often we find one made flesh and blood. I think I’ll wait for you.”
“Oh, I’m ready to go now,” said Emily, standing up.
“H’m. That wasn’t what I meant. Never mind. Come along, Star—if you don’t mind walking a bit slowly. I’ll take you back from the wilderness at least—I don’t know that I’ll venture to Wyther Grange to-night. I don’t want Aunt Nancy to take the edge off you. And so you don’t think me handsome?”
“I didn’t say so,” cried Emily.
“Not in words. But I can read your thoughts, Star—it won’t ever do to think anything you don’t want me to know. The gods gave me that gift—when they kept back everything else I wanted. You don’t think me handsome but you think me nice. Do you think you are pretty yourself?”
“A little—since Aunt Nancy lets me wear my bang,” said Emily frankly.
Jarback Priest made a grimace.
“Don’t call it by such a name. It’s a worse name even than bustle. Bangs and bustles—they hurt me. I like that black wave breaking on your white brows—but don’t call it a bang—ever again.”
“It is a very ugly word. I never use it in my poetry, of course.”
Whereby Dean Priest discovered that Emily wrote poetry. He also discovered pretty nearly everything else about her in that charming walk back to Priest Pond in
