"Get me some oak leaves, Graydon, and I will make
you a cup and give you a drink."
In a moment she made a fairy chalice with the aid of little twigs, and
when she handed it to him, dripping with water, his hand trembled as
he took it.
"Why, Graydon," she exclaimed, "what on earth makes you so nervous?"
"I am not used to climbing, and I suppose my hand has a little tremor
from fatigue."
"You poor thing! Here is a mossy rock on which you can imitate Rip.
You have only to imagine that my leaf goblet is the goblin flagon of
Irving's legend."
"Where and what would you be after twenty years?"
"Probably a wrinkled spinster at Santa Barbara."
"You wouldn't go away and leave me?"
"Certainly I would, if I couldn't wake you up."
He looked into her mirthful eyes and lovely face. Oh, how lovely it
was, flushed from heat and climbing! "Madge," he said, impetuously,
"you have waked me--every faculty of my soul, every longing of my
heart. Will you be my wife?"
Her face grew scarlet. She sprang to her feet, and asked, with half
serious, half comic dismay, "Will I be your _what!_"
"I asked you to be my wife," he began, confusedly.
"Oh, Graydon, this is worse than asking me to be your sister!" she
replied, laughing.
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