"Poor little Bebee!" he said again. "Did I frighten you indeed? Nay, that
was very base of me. We will not spoil our summer holiday. There is no
such thing as a fiend, my dear. There are only men--such as I am. Say the
daisy spell over for me, Bebee. See if I do not love you a little, just
as you love your flowers."
She smiled, and the happy laughter came again over her face.
"Oh, I am sure you care for me a little," she said, softly, "or you would
not be so good and get me books and give me pleasure; and I do not want
the daisies to tell me that, because you say it yourself, which is
better."
"Much better." he answered her dreamily, and lay there in the grass,
holding the little wooden shoes in his hands.
He was not in love with her. He was in no haste. He preferred to play
with her softly, slowly, as one separates the leaves of a rose, to see
the deep rose of its heart.
Her own ignorance of what she felt had a charm for him. He liked to lift
the veil from her eyes by gentle degrees, watching each new pulse-beat,
each fresh instinct tremble into life.
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