with a flower she had picked by the pathway, and Phil watching her devoutly.
The Southern sun had tinged her face the reddish warm hue of ripened fruit, doubly radiant by contrast with her wealth of dark-brown hair. The lustrous glance of her eyes, half veiled by their long lashes, and the graceful, careless pose of her stately figure held him enraptured. Her dress of airy, azure blue, so becoming to her dark beauty, gave Phil the impression of the eiderdown feathers of some rare bird of the tropics. He felt that if he dared to touch her she might lift her wings and sail over the cliff into the sky and forget to light again at his side.
"I am going to ask a very bold and impertinent question, Miss Margaret," Phil said with resolution. "May I?"
Margaret smiled incredulously.
"I'll risk your impertinence, and decide as to its boldness."
"Tell me, please, what that preacher said to you to-day."
Margaret looked away, unable to suppress the merriment that played about her eyes and mouth.
"Will you never breathe it to a soul, if I do?"
"Never."
"Honest Injun, here on the sacred altar of the princess?"
"On my honour."
"Then I'll tell you," she said, biting her lips to keep back a laugh. "Mr. McAlpin is very handsome and eloquent. I have always thought him the best preacher we have ever had in Piedmont"
