regarding them lovingly, says, "Are not they pretty!" as though her whole soul is wrapt in contemplation of their beauty, and as though no other deeper thought has led her to address him.
"Very. They are like your eyes," replies he, gravely, and with some hesitation, as if the words came reluctantly.
This is a concession, and so she feels it. A compliment to a true woman comes never amiss; and the knowledge that it has been wrung from him against his will, being but a tribute to its truth, adds yet another charm. Without appearing conscious of the fact, she moves a few steps nearer to him, always with her eyes bent upon the flowers, the grass, anywhere but on him: because you will understand how impossible it is for one person to drink in the full beauty of another if checked by that other's watchfulness. Molly, at all events, understands it thoroughly.
When she is quite close to him, so close that if she stirs her dress must touch him, so close that her flower-like face is dangerously near his arm, she whispers, softly:
"I am sorry."
"Are you?" says Luttrell, stupidly, although his heart is throbbing passionately, although every pulse is beating almost to pain. If his life depended upon it, or perhaps because of it, he can frame no more eloquent speech.
"Yes," murmurs Molly, with a thorough comprehension of all he is feeling. "And now we will be friends again, will we not?" Holding out to him a little cool, shy hand.
"Not friends," says the young man, in a low, passionate tone, clasping her hand eagerly: "it is too cold a word. I cannot be your friend. Your lover, your slave, if you will; only let me feel near to you. Molly,"—abandoning her slender fingers for the far sweeter possession of herself, and folding his arms around her with gentle audacity—"speak to me. Why are you so silent? Why do you not even look at me? You cannot want me to tell you of the love that is consuming me, because you know of it."
"I don't think you ought to speak to me like this at all," says Molly, severely, drawing herself out of his embrace, not hurriedly or angrily, but surely; "I am almost positive you should not; and—and John might not like it."
"I don't care a farthing what John likes," exclaims Luttrell, rather forcibly, giving wings to his manners, as his wrongs of the evening blossom. "What has he or any one to do with it but you and I alone? The question is, do you like it?"
"I am not at all sure that I do," says Molly, doubtfully, with a little distracting shake of her head. "You are so vehement, and I——"
"Don't go on," interrupts he, hastily. "You are going to say something unkind, and I won't listen to it. I know it by your eyes. Darling, why are you so cruel to me? Surely you must care for me, be it ever such a little. To think otherwise would—— But I will not think it. Molly,"—with increasing fervor—"say you will marry me."
"But indeed I can't," exclaims Miss Massereene, retreating a step or two, and glancing at him furtively from under her long lashes. "At least"—relenting a little, as she sees his face change and whiten at her words—"not yet. It is all so sudden, so unexpected; and you forget I am not accustomed to this sort of thing. Now, the curates"—with an irrepressible smile—"never went on like this: they always behaved modestly and with such propriety."
"'The curates!' What do they know about it?" returns this young man, most unjustly. "Do you suppose I love you like a curate?"
"And yet, when all is told, I suppose a curate is a man," says Molly, uncertainly, as one doubtful of the truth of her assertion, "and a well-behaved one, too. Now, you are quite different; and you have known me such a little time."
"What has time to do with it? The beginning and the ending of the whole matter is this: I love you!"
He is holding her hands and gazing down into her face with all his heart in his eyes, waiting for her next words—may they not decide his fate?—while she is feeling nothing in the world but a mad desire to break into laughter—a desire that arises half from nervousness, half from an irrepressible longing to destroy the solemnity of the scene.
"A pinch for stale news," says she, at last, with a frivolity most unworthy of the occasion, but in the softest, merriest whisper.
They are both young. The laugh is contagious. After a moment's struggle with his dignity, he echoes it.
"You can jest," says he: "surely that is a good sign. If you were going to refuse me you would not laugh. Beloved,"—taking her into his fond arms again—"say one little word to make me happy."
"Will any little word do? Long ago, in the dark ages when I was a child, I remember being asked a riddle à propos of short words. I will ask it to you now. What three letters contain everything in the world? Guess."
"No need to guess: I know. YES would contain everything in the world for me."
"You are wrong, then. It is ALL—all. Absurd, isn't it? I must have been very young when I thought that clever. But to return: would that little word do you?"
"Say 'Yes,' Molly."
"And if I say 'No,' what then? Will you throw yourself into this small river? Or perhaps hang yourself to the nearest tree? Or, worse still, refuse to speak to me ever again? Or 'go to skin and bone,' as my old nurse used to say I would when I refused a fifth meal in the day? Tell me which?"
"A greater evil than all those would befall me: I should live with no nearer companion than a perpetual regret. But"—with a shudder—"I will not believe myself so doomed. Molly, say what I ask you."
"Well, 'Yes,' then, since you will have it so. Though why you are so bent on your own destruction puzzles me. Do you know you never spoke to me all this evening? I don't believe you love me as well as you say."
"Don't I?" wistfully. Then, with sudden excitement, "I wish with all my heart I did not," he says, "or at least with only half the strength I do. If I could regulate my affections so, I might have some small chance of happiness; but as it is I doubt—I fear. Molly, do you care for me?"
"At times,"—mischievously—"I do—a little."
"And you know I love you?"
"Yes—it may be—when it suits you."
"And you,"—tightening his arms round her—"some time you will love me, my sweet?"
"Yes—perhaps so—when it suits me."
"Molly," says Luttrell after a pause, "won't you kiss me?"
As he speaks he stoops, bringing his cheek very close to hers.
"'Kiss you'?" says Molly, shrinking away from him, while flushing and reddening honestly now. "No, I think not. I never in all my life kissed any man but John, and—I don't believe I should like it. No, no; if I cannot be engaged to you without kissing you, I will not be engaged to you at all."
"It shall be as you wish," says Luttrell, very patiently, considering all things.
"You mean it?" Still keeping well away from him, and hesitating about giving the hand he is holding out his to receive.
"Certainly I do."
"And"—anxiously—"you don't mind?"
"Mind?"
