"And it's nothing I can help you in?"
"O no—thanks—"
"I would if I could. I would, really. You believe that—don't you, Emmie?"
This was going on fast, much faster than he had meant to go. The pathos and tender sorrow of her face were too much for him, and wise resolutions were forgotten. He had never called her "Emmie" before; and she scarcely seemed to notice it, she was so full of her trouble. There was the sound of a quivering sigh, and Cyril again took her hand.
"Emmie, don't you think you could let me help you? Couldn't you manage to look on me as something more than a mere friend . . . Yes, I mean it," as she turned wondering eyes upon him; eyes so soft and sad that he was carried away by their glance into a rush of pity and affectionate concern. He had no time to analyse his own feelings, to dissect the make of his sensations. Before he knew what would come next, he was saying with pleading earnestness—
"Emmie, I love you! I love you, darling! Can you love me? Will you promise to be my wife?"
"It is so kind of you," said Emmie wistfully. Then she sat up, and drew her hand away from his with an instinctive movement, yet she repeated, "It is so very kind of you."
"Not 'kind,' Emmie. This is not 'kindness.' It is something so much more. I don't think you understand."
"Yes—O I think I do. But I didn't know what you were going to say. It seems so—so strange! And—my mother—"
"Would your mother object? Would she mind?"