Upon the sill of the casement, a snow-white glossy pillow reposes, and a trailing shrub has softly rested a rich, crimson flower against it.
Well mayst thou seek that pillow, thou odoriferous flower, thought Pierre; not an hour ago, her own cheek must have rested there. 'Lucy!'
'Pierre!'
As heart rings to heart those voices rang, and for a moment, in the bright hush of the morning, the two stood silently but ardently eyeing each other, beholding mutual reflections of a boundless admiration and love.
'Nothing but Pierre,' laughed the youth, at last; 'thou hast forgotten to bid me good morning.'
'That would be little. Good mornings, good evenings, good days, weeks, months, and years to thee, Pierre;—bright Pierre!—Pierre!'
Truly, thought the youth, with a still gaze of inexpressible fondness; truly the skies do ope, and this invoking angel looks down.—'I would return thee thy manifold good mornings, Lucy, did not that presume thou hadst lived through a night; and by heaven, thou belong'st to the regions of an infinite day!'
'Fie, now, Pierre; why should ye youths always swear when ye love?'
'Because in us love is profane, since it mortally reaches toward the heaven in ye!'
'There thou fly'st again, Pierre; thou art always circumventing me so. Tell me, why should ye youths ever show so sweet an expertness in turning all trifles of ours into trophies of yours?'
'I know not how that is, but ever was it our fashion to do.' And shaking the casement shrub, he dislodged the flower, and conspicuously fastened it in his bosom. 'I must away now, Lucy; see! under these colours I march.'
'Bravissimo! oh, my only recruit!'
