cted and
accepted none, have had so wide an advantage in society as to be
able, when the moment comes, to have their wits about them. But
Rachel had known nothing of what is called society, and had never
before known either the trouble or the joy of being loved. So when
the question was pressed upon her, she trembled, and felt that her
breath was failing her. She had filled herself full of resolutions
as to what she would do when this moment came,--as to how she would
behave and what words she would utter. But all that was gone from her
now. She could only stand still and tremble. Of course he might call
her Rachel;--might call her what he pleased. To him, with his wider
experience, that now became manifest enough.

"You must give me leave for more than that, Rachel, if you would
not send me away wretched. You must let me call you my own." Then
he moved round the table towards her; and as he moved, though she
retreated from him, she did not retreat with a step as rapid as his
own. "Rachel,"--and he put out his hand to her--"I want you to be my
wife." She allowed the tips of her fingers to turn themselves toward
him, as though unable altogether to refuse the greeting which he
offered her, but as she did so she turned away from him, and bent
down her head. She had heard all she wanted to hear. Why did he not
go away, and leave her to think of it? He had named to her the word
so sacred between man and woman. He had said that he sought her for
his wife. What need was there that he should stay longer?

He got her hand in his, and then passed his arm round her waist.
"Say, love; say, Rachel;--shall it be so? Nay, but I will have an
answer from you. You shall look it to me, if you will not speak it;"
and he got his head round over her shoulder, as though to look into
her eyes.

"Oh, Mr. Rowan; pray don't;--pray don't pull me."

"But, dearest, say a word to me. You must say some word. Can you
learn to love me, Rachel?"

Learn to love him! The lesson had come to her very easily. How was it
possible, she had once thought, not to love him.

"Say a word to me," said Rowan, still struggling to look into her
face; "one word, and then I will let you go."

"What word?"

"Say to me, 'Dear Luke, I will be your wife.'"

She remained for a moment quite passive in his hands, trying to say
it, but the words would not come. Of course she would be his wife.
Why need he trouble her further?

"Nay, but, Rachel, you shall speak, or