and sat down,
crossing her hands on her lap. That was all that I thought it was, so
little did I know women's hearts, and least of all hers.

I remained yet a moment longer, leaning my forehead on my hand, and my
hand flat upon the tapestry, staring into the red logs, and considering
how to say what I had to say with the least alarm to her. I felt--though
I am ashamed to say it--as it were something of condescension towards
her. I knew that it was a good match for her, for had not her father
drilled that into me by a hundred looks and hints? I knew that I was
something considerable, and like to be more so, and that I was
sacrificing a good deal for her sake. And then a kind of tenderness
came over me as I thought how courageous she was, and good and simple,
and I put these other thoughts away, and turned to her where she sat
with the firelight on her chin and brows and hair, very rigid and still.

"Dolly, my dear," I said, "I think you know what I have to say to you.
It is that I love you very dearly, as you must have seen--"

She made a little quick movement as if to speak.

"Wait, cousin," I said, "till I have done. I tell you that I love you
very dearly, and honor you, and can never forget what you did for me.
And I am a man of a very considerable estate and a Catholic; so there is
nothing to think of in that respect. And your father too will be
pleased, I know; and we are--"

Again she made that little quick movement; and I stopped.

"Well, my dear?"

She looked up at me very quietly.

"Well, Cousin Roger; and what then?"

That confused me a little; for I had thought that she had understood.
And then I thought that perhaps she too was confused.

"Why, my dear," I said very patiently as I thought, as one would speak
to a child, "I am asking you if you will be my wife."

I turned away from the fire altogether, and faced her, thinking I should
have her in my arms. But at first she said nothing at all, but sat
immovable, scrutinizing me, I thought, as if to read all that was in my
head and heart. But it was all new to me, for what did I know of love
except that it was very strange and sweet? So I waited for her answer.
That answer came.

"Cousin Roger," she said in a very low voice, "I am very sorry you have
spoken as you have--"

I straightened myself suddenly and looked at her more closely. She had
not moved at all, except her face. A kind of roaring murmur began to
fill my ears.

"Because," said sh