"Good Lord!" said I: "if I hadn't forgotten the money!"
"I think nothing teaches you," sighed she.
She had sewn them tightly in a little bag of yellow oiled silk; and as I held it, warm from her young bosom, and turned it over in my hand, I saw that it was embroidered in scarlet thread with the one word "Anne" beneath the Lion Rampant of Scotland, in imitation of the poor toy I had carved for her—it seemed, so long ago!
"I wear the original," she murmured.
I crushed the parcel into my breast pocket, and, taking both hands again, fell on my knees before her on the stones.
"Flora—my angel I my heart's bride!"
"Hush!" She sprang away. Heavy footsteps were coming up the path. I had just time enough to fling Miss Gilchrist's shawl over my head and resume my seat, when a couple of buxom country wives bustled past the mouth of the quarry. They saw us, beyond a doubt: indeed, they stared hard at us, and muttered some comment as they went by and left us gazing at each other.
"They took us for a picnic," I whispered.
"The queer thing." said Flora, "is that they were not surprised. The sight of you"
"Seen sideways in this shawl, and with my legs hidden by the stone here, I might pass for an elderly female junketer."
"This is scarcely the hour for a picnic," answered my wise girl, "and decidedly not the weather."
The sound of another footstep prevented my reply. This time the wayfarer was an old farmer-looking fellow in a shepherd's plaid and bonnet powdered with mist. He halted before us and nodded, leaning rheumatically on his staff.
