"Well, Miss—excuse the words—I thought you would like them. But I can't match you, I know, in mapping out my mind upon my tongue, as I may say. I never was very clever in my inside. But I thank you. Come, give me your hand!"
She hesitated, somewhat disconcerted at Oak's old-fashioned earnest conclusion to a dialogue lightly carried on. "Very well," she said, and gave him her hand, compressing her lips to a demure impassivity. He held it but an instant, and in his fear of being too demonstrative, swerved to the opposite extreme, touching her fingers with the lightness of a small-hearted person.
"I am sorry," he said, the instant after, regretfully.
"What for?"
"Letting your hand go so quickly."
"You may have me again if you like; there it is." She gave him her hand again.
Oak held it longer this time—indeed, curiously long. "How soft it is—being winter time, too—not chapped or rough, or anything!" he said.
"There—that's long enough," said she, though without pulling it away. "But I suppose you are thinking you would like to kiss it? You may if you want to."
"I wasn't thinking of any such thing," said Gabriel, simply; "but I will———"
