You , I think , are Kilmeny Gordon . I thought your music so very lovely the other evening that I have been wishing ever since that I might hear it again . Wo n't you play for me ? '' The vague fear had all gone from her eyes by this time , and suddenly she smiled -- a merry , girlish , wholly irresistible smile , which broke through the calm of her face like a gleam of sunlight rippling over a placid sea . Then she wrote , `` I am very sorry that I can not play this evening . I did not bring my violin with me . But I will bring it to-morrow evening and play for you if you would like to hear me . I should like to please you . '' Again that note of innocent frankness ! What a child she was -- what a beautiful , ignorant child , utterly unskilled in the art of hiding her feelings ! But why should she hide them ? They were as pure and beautiful as herself . Eric smiled back at her with equal frankness . `` I should like it more than I can say , and I shall be sure to come to-morrow evening if it is fine . But if it is at all damp or unpleasant you must not come . In that case another evening will do . And now wo n't you give me some flowers ? '' She nodded , with another little smile , and began to pick some of the June lilies , carefully selecting the most perfect among them . He watched her lithe , graceful motions with delight ; every movement seemed poetry itself . She looked like a very incarnation of Spring -- as if all the shimmer of young leaves and glow of young mornings and evanescent sweetness of young blossoms in a thousand springs had been embodied in her .
When she came to him , radiant , her hands full of the lilies , a couplet from a favourite poem darted into his head -- `` A blossom vermeil white That lightly breaks a faded flower sheath , Here , XXXXX God 's rood , is the one maid for me . ''
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