"I thought yon remembered me, from that night when father came home with you?"
There seemed some disappointment that I had so forgotten.
"That night," I said, "I did not see you at all. It was so dark, that I felt like a blind man—I only heard your voice."
"I thought you remembered my voice."
The disappointment was still manifest. Fool that I was!—that voice, once heard, should have sunk into my memory for ever.
"I thought your voice was familiar when I heard you on the hill-top; but when I saw you, I loved you from that moment—and then every other woman's voice in the world went, for me, out of existence!" She half arose, but sat down again, and the happy blush once more mantled her cheek—I felt that my peace was made. "My name is Arthur." Here a thought struck me—struck me for the first time, and sent through me a thrill of unutterable delight. The moment she had seen me she had mentioned my name—all unconsciously, it is true—but she had mentioned it. I feared, however, to alarm her by attracting her attention to it as yet, and went on:—"Arthur Severn—but I think you know it."
"Yes; I heard it mentioned up at Knocknacar."
"Who by?"
"Andy the driver. He spoke to my aunt and me when we were driving down, the day after we—after we met on the hill-top the last time."
