"You are a great big fellow and I like that, and don't think you ugly," said Elsie; "and I don't care if you are awkward. I am sick of men that walk about like ballet-dancers."
"You only say that out of good-nature," said Tom; "you are afraid of hurting my feelings."
"Don't I always say what I think?" rejoined she.
"But you don't care for me—you couldn't love me!"
"You have told me so three times already," said Elsie.
But all the while there was something in her face and voice which made him persevere. He had never thought to speak of his love to her again. This was the last, last time; but he would open his whole heart now, she should see the exact truth.
In his great excitement, Tom forgot all bashfulness; he did not halt in his speech, but poured out his story in strong, manly words, that must have awakened at least a feeling of respect in any woman's bosom.
"I tried to cure myself," continued Tom. "I thought absence—entire change—might make a difference in my feelings. But when the two years ended I came back, only to find my love grown deeper from the lapse of time, with every feeling more firmly centred there. You speak kindly to me sometimes. You pity me—at least you pity me! But you couldn't love me, of course; that is impossible! Let me get up—I mustn't talk any more—let me go!"
But Elsie's hand still rested upon his shoulder,—she did not stir.
"You could not love me," repeated Tom; "never, never: you have told me so ever so many times."