"Thou shalt thyself be the lovely critic, fair maiden!" answered
Tom.
And thus they were already on the footing of somewhere about a
two years' acquaintance--thanks to the smart of ill-usage in
Letty's bosom, the gayety in Tom's, the sudden wild weather, the
quiet heath, the gathering shades, and the umbrella! The wind
blew cold, the air was dank and chill, the west was a low gleam
of wet yellow, and the rain shot stinging in their faces; but
Letty cared quite as little for it all as Tom did, for her heart,
growing warm with the comfort of the friendly presence, felt like
a banished soul that has found a world; and a joy as of endless
deliverance pervaded her being. And neither to her nor to Tom
must we deny our sympathy in the pleasure which, walking over a
bog, they drew from the flowers that mantled awful deeps; they
will not sink until they stop, and begin to build their house
upon it. Within that umbrella, hovered, and glided with them, an
atmosphere of bliss and peace and rose-odors. In the midst of
storm and coming darkness, it closed warm and genial around the
pair. Tom meditated no guile, and Letty had no deceit in her. Yet
was Tom no true man, or sweet Letty much of a woman. Neither of
them was yet _of the truth._
At the other side of the heath, almost upon the path, stood a
deserted hut; door and window were gone, but the roof remained:
just as they neared it, the wind fell, and the rain began to come
down in earnest.
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