my work, and I really cannot go without
speaking. I must know if there is any chance for me."

"I like you very much," said Imogen, demurely.

"Do you? Then perhaps one day you might get to like me better still. I'd
do all that a man could to make you happy if you would, and I think
you'd like Burnet to live in. It's a big place, you know, with all the
modern improvements,--not like this, which, pretty as it is, would be
rather lonely in the winters, I should think. There are lots of nice
people in Burnet, and there's Johnnie, whom you already know, and my
father,--you'd be sure to like my father."

"Oh, don't go on in this way, as if it were only for the advantages of
the change that I should consent. It would be for quite different
reasons, if I did." Then, after a short pause, she added, "I wonder what
they will say at Bideford."

It was an indirect yes, but Dorry understood that it _was_ yes.

"Then you'll think of it? You don't refuse me? Imogen, you make me very
happy."

Dorry did look happy; and as bliss is beautifying, he looked handsome as
well. His strong, well-knit figure showed to advantage in the rough
climbing-suit which he wore; his eyes sparkled and beamed as he looked
at Imogen.

"May I talk with Lionel about it?" he asked, persuasively. "He
represents your father over here, you know."

"Yes, I suppose so." She blushed a little, but looked frankly up at
Dorry. "Poor Lion! it's hard lines for him, and I feel guilty at the
idea of deserting him so soon; but I know your sisters will be good to
him, and I can't help being glad that you care for me. Only there's one
thing I must say to you, Theodore [no one since he was baptized had ever
called Dorry 'Theodore' till now!], for I don't want you to fancy me
nicer than I really am. I was horribly stiff and prejudiced when I first
came out. I thought everything American was inferior and mistaken, and
all the English ways were best; and I was nasty,--yes, really very nasty
to your sisters, especially dear Clover. I have learned her worth now,
and I love her and America, and I shall love it all the better for your
sake; but all the same, I shall probably disappoint you sometimes, and
be stiff and impracticable and provoking, and you will need to have
patience with me: it's the price you must pay if you marry an English
wife,--this particular English wife, at least."

"It's a price that I'll gladly pay," cried Dorry, holding her hand
tight. "Not that I b