It was all he recognised of her, and he was proud of it.

She stood in her white dress against the trees which grew around; her face was flushed into a brilliancy of colour which resembled that of a rose in June; the great heavy white flowers drooped on either side of her beautiful head, and if her brown hair was a little disordered, the very disorder only seemed to add a grace.

She pleased him more by looking so lovely than by all her tender endeavours to fall in with his varying humour.
But when they left the wood, and Ruth had taken out her flowers, and resumed her bonnet, as they came near the inn, the simple thought of giving him pleasure was not enough to secure Ruth's peace.

She became pensive and sad, and could not rally into gaiety.
"Really, Ruth," said he, that evening, "you must not encourage yourself in this habit of falling into melancholy reveries without any cause.

You have been sighing twenty times during the last half-hour.