Lucina had heard of his good deeds from her father, how kind he was to the poor and sick, how hard he had worked, how faithful he had been to his mother and sister.

Jerome listened with bliss, and shame that he should find it bliss.

Then Lucina and he remembered together, with that perfect time of memory which is as harmonious as any duet, all the episodes of their childhood.
"I remember how you gave me sassafras," said Lucina, "and how you would not take the nice gingerbread that Hannah made, and how sad I felt about it." "I will get some more sassafras for you to-morrow," said Jerome.
"And I will give you some more gingerbread if you will take it," said she, with a sweet coquettishness.
"I will, if you want me to," said Jerome.
They were out in the front yard then, a gust of wind pressed under the trees, and seemed to blow them together.

Lucina's white muslin fluttered around Jerome's knees, her curls floated across his breast.
"Oh," murmured Lucina, confusedly, "this wind has come all of a sudden," and she stood apart from him.
"You will take cold; we had better go in," said Jerome.

They went into the house, Jerome being a little hurt that Lucina had shrunk away from him so quickly, and Lucina disappointed that Jerome was so solicitous lest she take cold.