I will stay with you here till
your mother comes, and she shall answer for you. If you had disliked
me I think you would have said so."

"I don't dislike you," she whispered.

"And do you love me?" She slightly bowed her head. "And you will be
my wife?" Again she went through the same little piece of acting.
"And I may call you Rachel now?" In answer to this question she shook
herself free from his slackened grasp, and escaped away across the
room.

"You cannot forbid me now. Come and sit down by me, for of course I
have got much to say to you. Come and sit down, and indeed I will not
trouble you again."

Then she went to him very slowly, and sat with him, leaving her hand
in his, listening to his words, and feeling in her heart the full
delight of having such a lover. Of the words that were then spoken,
but very few came from her lips; he told her all his story of the
brewery quarrel, and was very eloquent and droll in describing
Tappitt as he brandished the poker.

"And was he going to hit you with it?" said Rachel, with all her eyes
open.

"Well, he didn't hit me," said Luke; "but to look at him he seemed
mad enough to do anything." Then he told her how at the present
moment he was living at the inn, and how it became necessary, from
this unfortunate quarrel, that he should go at once to London. "But
under no circumstances would I have gone," said he, pressing her hand
very closely, "without an answer from you."

"But you ought not to think of anything like that when you are in
such trouble."

"Ought I not? Well, but I do, you see." Then he explained to her that
part of his project consisted in his marrying her out of hand,--at
once. He would go up to London for a week or two, and then, coming
back, be married in the course of the next month.

"Oh, Mr. Rowan, that would be impossible."

"You must not call me Mr. Rowan, or I shall call you Miss Ray."

"But indeed it would be impossible."

"Why impossible?"

"Indeed it would. You can ask mamma;--or rather, you had better give
over thinking of it. I haven't had time yet even to make up my mind
what you are like."

"But you say that you love me."

"So I do, but I suppose I ought not; for I'm sure I don't know what
you are like yet. It seems to me that you're very fond of having
your own way, sir;--and so you ought," she added; "but really you
can't have your own way in that. Nobody ever heard of such a thing.
Everybody would think we were mad."

"