"Oh, I don't know," I said, lifting up my hands as I used to do when I said my prayers, only that I don't think I had ever hitherto said my prayers with so much feeling—"I don't know. I don't know anything. I think I am losing my wits. Will you forgive me?"
"There is nothing to forgive," answered he. "But tell me what made you think that?"
"Oh no, no; don't make me say any more," I implored.
"Yes, you must tell me that," insisted he.
"Everybody always thought it," murmured I. "Mother used to say you would never think of coming down to the Grange so often as you used to do only to quarrel over things with an old man. Oh, I can't think how I can repeat such things! It's dreadful. But, you see, mother thinks such a deal of Joyce. She has been quite unhappy because you so rarely come now. You must forgive her and me too. I thought it just the same. Only Joyce didn't. She's not that sort of girl. And father didn't. If mother ever hinted at it, he told her that you would never think of wedding out of your own class, and that, indeed, he would never have allowed it. Father is very proud."
"Yes," answered the squire, "and he is right. But such pride is a poor thing compared with a deep and honest love. There is a girl, not of what is called my own class, whom I would marry if she would have me, but her name is not Joyce Maliphant."
"Not Joyce!" cried I, genuinely surprised, genuinely disappointed, and for a moment forgetting all my many emotions.
"No," he said, gravely.
He did not try to take my hands again. I dropped them down once more, and stood looking at him. His eyes seemed to travel through mine into my heart. Their look frightened me, it was full of such a wonderful tenderness. I had never thought before that his eyes were beautiful; good, kind, frank blue eyes—nothing more. But as I remember them that night, I think they must have been beautiful.
"What do you mean?" I murmured.