It was strange how frequently the strong, not very graceful figure
of Leonard Clare marched through these reveries. She occasionally
spoke to him at the common table, or as she passed the borders of
the hay-field, where he and Henry were at work: but his words to
her were always few and constrained. What was there in his
eyes that haunted her? Not merely a most reverent admiration of
her pure womanly refinement, although she read that also; not a
fear of disparagement, such as his awkward speech implied, but
something which seemed to seek agonizingly for another language
than that of the lips,--something which appealed to her from equal
ground, and asked for an answer.
One evening she met him in the lane, as she returned from the
meadow. She carried a bunch of flowers, with delicate blue and
lilac bells, and asked him the name.
"Them's Brandywine cowslips," he answered; "I never heard no other
name.
"May I correct you?" she said, gently, and with a smile which she
meant to be playful. "I suppose the main thing is to speak one's
thought, but there are neat and orderly ways, and there are
careless ways.
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