out her gloved fingers to his brown dusty hand. He took them, looked for a moment into her face, and for the second time raised them to his lips.
"Excuse my glove," she said, with a little smile.
"Excuse mine," he answered, exhibiting his sunburnt, work-stained hand.
"Richard," said Gertrude, "you never had less need of excuse in your life. You never looked half so well."
He fixed his eyes upon her a moment. "Why, you have forgiven me!" he exclaimed.
"Yes," said Gertrude, "I have forgiven you,—both you and myself. We both of us behaved very absurdly, but we both of us had reason. I wish you had come back."
Richard looked about him, apparently at loss for a rejoinder. "I have been very busy," he said, at last, with a simplicity of tone slightly studied. An odd sense of dramatic effect prompted him to say neither more nor less.
An equally delicate instinct forbade Gertrude to express all the joy which this assurance gave her. Excessive joy would have implied undue surprise; and it was a part of her plan frankly to expect the best things of her companion. "If you have been busy," she said, "I congratulate you. What have you been doing?"
"O, a hundred things. I have been quarrying,
