The apple-blossoms were in all their white-and-pink
glory, and filled the summer-like air with a fragrance as delicate as
that of the arbutus. The petals of the cherry were floating down like
snow in every passing breeze, glimmering momentarily in the pale
radiance. The night was growing so beautiful that Amy was tempted to
stroll out in the grounds, and soon she yielded to a fancy to see the
effect of moonlight through an apple-tree that towered like a mound of
snow at some little distance from the house. She would not have been
human had the witchery of the May evening been without its influence. If
Burt could have understood her, this was his opportunity. If he had come
with step and tone that accorded with the quiet evening, and simply said,
"Amy, you know--you have seen that I love you; what hope can you give
me?" she in her present mood would have answered him as gently and
frankly as a child. She might have laughingly pointed him to the tree,
and said: "See, it is in blossom now. It will be a long time before you
pick the apples. You must wait. If you will be sensible, and treat me as
you would Johnnie, were she older, I will ride and walk with you, and be
as nice to you as I can."
But this Burt could not do and still remain Burt. He was like an
overcharged cloud, and when he spoke at last his words seemed to the
sensitive girl to have the vividness and abruptness of the lightning. It
was her custom to make a special toilet for the evening, and when she had
come down to supper with a rose in her hair, and dressed in some light
clinging fabric, she had proved so attractive to the young fellow that he
felt that the limit of his restraint was reached.
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