It was easy for him to slip down from his low seat to a footstool, and there, on one knee, to look full into her face, and let his handsome, dark eyes plead for him.
"Why should I not have said it?" he breathed, softly. "Has it not been the dream of my life for months?—I might almost say for years? I loved you ever since you first came amongst us, Elizabeth, years ago."
"Did you, indeed?" said Elizabeth. A light of humour showed itself through the tears that had come into her eyes. An amused, reluctant smile curved the corners of her mouth. "What, when I was an awkward, clumsy, ignorant schoolgirl, as I remember your calling me one day after I had done something exceptionally stupid? And when you played practical jokes upon me—hung my doll up by its hair, and made me believe that there was a ghost in the attics—did you care for me then? Oh, no, Percival, you forget! and probably you exaggerate the amount of your feeling as much as you do the length of time it has lasted."
"It's no laughing matter, I assure you, Elizabeth," said Percival, laughing a little himself at these recollections, but looking vexed at the same time. "I am perfectly serious now, and very much in earnest; and I can't believe that my stupid jokes, when I was a mere boy, have had such an effect upon your mind as to prevent you from caring for me now."
"No," said Elizabeth. "They make no difference; but—I'm very sorry, Percival—I really don't think that it would do."
"What would not do? what do you mean?" said Percival, frowning.
"This arrangement; this—this—proposition of yours. Nobody would like it."
"Nobody could object. I have a perfect right to marry if I choose, and whom I choose. I am independent of my father."
"You could not marry yet, Percival," she said, in rather a chiding tone.
"I could—if you would not mind sharing my poverty with me. If you loved me, Elizabeth, you would not mind."