God and the Man by Robert W. Buchanan — Read

As they lingered there, leaning over the keystone of the little bridge, they formed a fine contrast; he, so mightily and grandly made, with his sunburnt cheeks and air of Arcadian simplicity; she, so delicate and fairy-like, in her tight-fitting dress of black, with her Little gloved hands and fairy feet. Down below them in the shadows the gnats swarmed, and the minnows sparkled, and the trout leapt; birds were singing on every side; in heaven, there was full sunshine; on earth, perfect fruition of the summer tide. Delicious was the birds' song, delicious the cool trickling sound of the running brook. Like a child delighted, Priscilla listened, and her pure face reflected the joy of all the happy things around her.

Young Christian looked and gladdened. He did not know it yet, for he was a boy, but the divine hour had come: the hour which does not come to all (for to some men capable of infinite affection it never comes at all), but which, when it does come, means transfiguration. This delicate being, bringing with her the perfume and the beauty of some unknown world, this dainty stranger, who talked with him already as frankly as if he were an old friend, held him spell-bound. Yet, strange to say, he was not tongue-tied; to his own astonishment, he found himself catching the contagion of her frankness, and talking with a freedom unusual to him.