He liked his new sensations very
much, but knew not what to make of them; and so had a sense of
adventurous uncertainty, which was perhaps a pleasure in itself.
Cornelia walked down the path in front of him, picking her dainty steps
to avoid stray spears of grass or weeds, and gathering up her light
skirts in one hand, out of the way of the bushes which leaned lovingly
forward to drop a tear upon her. At length she reached the tea-rose
bush, and paused there. Bressant came up and stood beside her.
It was just dark enough to make the difference between a perfect and an
imperfect bud a matter of some doubt. Cornelia peeped cautiously about,
putting aside the wet twigs gingerly, and lifting up one flower after
another; desisting every once in a while to slap at the fine sting of a
mosquito on her arms or neck.
"Oh! there's one that looks nice!" exclaimed she, disposing her drapery
to reach across the bush for a distant bud which looked in every respect
satisfactory. But Bressant saw it, and plucked it without effort,
drawing blood from his finger as he did so, however. He smelt it, and
looked from it to Cornelia, apparently trying to identify an idea.
"Aren't you going to give me my bud?" demanded Miss Valeyon. "What's the
matter, sir?"
"In some way it reminds me of you," replied he, giving it to her with a
shake of the head.
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