, and
that if she did not love him then, he would be willing to wait many
years to win her love, and make her his wife. Still she did not speak,
and he laid one hand on hers, where it rested on the table, and
whispered softly, "Marguerite, do you love me?" With that she lifted
her head, and the troubled, appealing look in her eyes smote his heart
into a brighter flame. He pressed her hand in a closer grasp and
exclaimed, "Marguerite, dearest, say that you love me!"

The innocent, fluttering, maiden heart of her, glad and proud to feel
that she had been chosen above all others, but doubtful of itself, and
ignorant of everything else, leaped toward him then and a wistful
little smile brightened her face. She opened her lips to speak, but
suddenly she seemed to see, beside the gate, a tall and comely figure
bending toward her with eyes that burned her cheeks and cast her own
to the ground. She snatched her hand from Wellesly's grasp and buried
her face in her palms.

"I do not know," she panted. "I must think about it."

"Yes, certainly, dear--you will let me call you dear, won't you--take
time to think it over. I will wait for your answer until your heart is
quite sure. I hope it will be what I want, and don't make me wait very
long, dear. Good-bye, sweetheart."

He lifted her hand to his lips and went away. She sat quite still
beside the table, her burning face in her hands, her breast a turmoil
of blind doubts, and longings, and keen disappointments with, she knew
not what, and over all an imperious, sudden-born wish to be loved.

Wellesly walked down the street smiling to himself in serene assurance
of an easy victory. He was accustomed to having women show him much
favor, and more than one had let him know that he might marry her if
he wished. Moreover, he thought himself a very desirable match, and he
did not doubt for an instant that any woman, who liked him as well as
he was sure Marguerite did, would accept his offer.

"It was evidently her first proposal," he thought, "and she did not
know exactly what to do with it. She is as shy and as sweet as a
little wood-violet. Some girls, after my undemonstrative manner this
afternoon, would write me a sarcastic note with a 'no' in it as big as
a house. But nothing else would have done with Marguerite. She isn't
one of the sort that wants every man she knows to begin kissing her at
the first opportunity. And that is one of the reasons I mean to marry
her. The other