"Yes, thee," said Hugh. "Canst not understand that my happiness is in thine hands?"
Gwladys clasped her hands. "Oh, Mishteer!" she said, "I don't understand your words, or what you want of me."
"I want thee, Gwladys, to come and be the brightness of my home, the idol of my love—to be my wife, lass!"
Gwladys covered her face with her hands to hide her mingled feelings of astonishment and fright.
"It was the Mishteer!—he who had been mainstay and protector to her mother and herself ever since her father's death—to whom their cottage belonged—to whom they owed a year's rent—who had, in fact, loaded them with kindnesses and brightened their lives. And it was he who now desired to confer upon her this great honour. To be the Mishteer's wife!—she, a girl of eighteen, to be raised over all the other girls of the village; to own his house, his riches, and (above all) his heart! It was too wonderful for her to realize! But why—oh! why did not Ivor love her like this?"
All this flashed through her mind while she covered her face. Hugh came nearer, and, gently trying to draw away her hands, spoke again (and his voice was trembling and husky):
"Thou canst not love me! Tell me, Gwladys—hast any other lover?"
"No, no!" said the girl—"indeed, no! Nobody loves me! But, Mishteer—you are mistaken; you cannot care for-me—a poor girl, a fisherman's daughter, the humblest and poorest of your work-people!"
"I love thee," he said, taking both her hands in his; "and I am content that it should be all on my side at first—only at first, Gwladys—for my deep love for thee must in time awaken the same in thine heart for me. I know thou canst not love me now—I am so much older than thee. I cannot expect thee yet to care for a great rough fellow like me—but marry me, and I will change thy coldness to love! Believe me! Wilt try me, lass?"
Gwladys was trembling all over as she answered, "I cannot, Mishteer; oh! indeed I cannot!"