had
never imagined anything so commonplace as this.

He stooped to caress her again, but she drew back.

"You frighten me!" she cried; and at these words he instantly released
her.

"It is alarming--being kissed--and especially when you're not used to
it. But that does not answer my question. Will you marry me, or will you
not?"

"I don't know!" cried Dorothy, faintly. "You mustn't ask me; you must
talk to Mrs. Kemp about it."

"I might talk to Mrs. Kemp about changing my room in the house, or ask
her concerning anything belonging to the household, but I couldn't think
of asking her to find me a wife and to seal the bargain for me. The
'Yes' or 'No' must be said by the girl herself, as she is the one who is
to live with me and to make the best or the worst of the bargain
through life. Now, Dorothy, I want a plain, straightforward answer.
Tell me, will you be my bride?"

She colored and smiled, and the sort of shy half fear which always
assailed her at his approach came over her now more strongly than ever,
and the quick blood came rushing to her finger-ends.

"I--don't know what to say!" gasped Dorothy. "I couldn't marry anybody,
I think."

His arms dropped from about her.

"Am I to understand, then," he asked, in a constrained voice, "that you
refuse me?"

"Oh, I don't know!" cried Dorothy, melting into fresh, quick tears.
"I--I--should want to ask somebody about it first before I said 'Yes.'"

He had quite believed that she would accept him on the spot the moment
he proposed, and her failure to do this made him almost catch his breath
in astonishment.

This uncertainty in the matter gave more zest to his ardor.

"You dislike me?" he questioned, wondering if that could possibly be.

"Oh, no, no! I like you. Won't you believe me?"

He stepped back and looked at her with a sarcastic smile--looked at the
little figure leaning against the fountain, with one hand resting on the
rim of it, the other held out imploringly toward him.

"Believe you? Why do you insist upon making me uncivil?" he replied. "I
do _not_ believe you! I dare say you fancy that you are telling the
truth; but if another man were to come on the scene with a few thousands
a year more, and a higher position in the social scale, you would have
a very different answer for him at your tongue's end."

He looks at her--looks at the innocently wooing arms--at the
tear-stained, dimpled, tremulous face, and, now that he thinks that he
can no