ve me."

"Have I not always loved you, Will, since almost the first moment
that I saw you?"

"But that won't do. You know that is not fair. Come, Clara; I've had
a deal of trouble,--and grief too; haven't I? You should say a word
to make up for it;--that is, if you can say it."

"What can a word like that signify to you to-day? You have got
everything."

"Have I got you?" Still she paused. "I will have an answer. Have I
got you? Are you now my own?"

"I suppose so, Will. Don't now. I will not have it again. Does not
that satisfy you?"

"Tell me that you love me."

"You know that I love you."

"Better than anybody in the world?"

"Yes;--better than anybody in the world."

"And after all you will be--my wife?"

"Oh, Will,--how you question one!"

"You shall say it, and then it will all be fair and honest."

"Say what? I'm sure I thought I had said everything."

"Say that you mean to be my wife."

"I suppose so,--if you wish it."

"Wish it!" said he, getting up from his seat, and throwing his hat
into the bushes on one side; "wish it! I don't think you have ever
understood how I have wished it. Look here, Clara; I found when I got
down to Norfolk that I couldn't live without you. Upon my word it is
true. I don't suppose you'll believe me."

"I didn't think it could be so bad with you as that."

"No;--I don't suppose women ever do believe. And I wouldn't have
believed it of myself. I hated myself for it. By George, I did. That
is when I began to think it was all up with me."

"All up with you! Oh, Will!"

"I had quite made up my mind to go to New Zealand. I had, indeed. I
couldn't have kept my hands off that man if we had been living in the
same country. I should have wrung his neck."

"Will, how can you talk so wickedly?"

"There's no understanding it till you have felt it. But never mind.
It's all right now; isn't it, Clara?"

"If you think so."

"Think so! Oh, Clara, I am such a happy fellow. Do give me a kiss.
You have never given me one kiss yet."

"What nonsense! I didn't think you were such a baby."

"By George, but you shall;--or you shall never get home to tea
to-night. My own, own, own darling. Upon my word, Clara, when I begin
to think about it I shall be half mad."

"I think you are quite that already."

"No, I'm not;--but I shall be when I'm alone. What can I say to you,
Clara, to make you understand how much I love you? You remember the
song, 'For Bonnie Annie Laurie I'd