turn
the handle of my door he stood beside me.

"I do not know what there is about you," he said, "but you drive me mad. I
shall insist upon carrying out my aunt's wish, after all! I shall marry
you, and never let you out of my sight--do you hear?"

Oh, such a strange sense of exaltation crept over me--it is with me still!
Of course, he probably will not mean all that to-morrow, but to have made
such a stiff block of stone rush up-stairs and say this much now is
perfectly delightful!

I looked at him up from under my eyelashes. "No, you will not marry me," I
said, calmly, "or do anything else I don't like; and now, really,
good-night," and I slipped into my room and closed the door. I could hear
he did not stir for some seconds. Then he went off down the stairs again,
and I am alone with my thoughts!

My thoughts! I wonder what they mean! What did I do that had this effect
upon him? I intended to do something, and I did it, but I am not quite
sure what it was. However, that is of no consequence. Sufficient for me to
know that my self-respect is restored and I can now go out and see the
world with a clear conscience.

_He_ has asked me to marry him--and _I_ have said I won't!

BRANCHES PARK,[1]

Thursday night, _November 3._

DEAR BOB,--

A quaint thing has happened to me! Came down here to take over the
place, and to say decidedly I would not marry Miss Travers, and I
find her with red hair and a skin like milk, and a pair of green
eyes that look at you from a forest of black eyelashes with a
thousand unsaid challenges. I should not wonder if I commit some
folly. One has read of women like this in the _cinque-cento_ time in
Italy, but up to now I had never met one. She is not in the room ten
minutes before one feels a sense of unrest, and desire for one
hardly knows what--principally to touch her, I fancy. Good Lord!
what a skin! pure milk and rare roses--and the reddest Cupid's bow
of a mouth! You had better come down at once (these things are
probably in your line) to save me from some sheer idiocy. The
situation is exceptional--she and I practically alone in the house,
for old Barton does not count. She had nowhere to go, and as far as
I can make out has not a friend in the world. I suppose I ought to
leave. I will try to on Monday; but