“If she gives you her heart,” said I, “you must take it, thankfully, and use it well, and not pull it in pieces, and laugh in her face, because she cannot snatch it away.”
He now turned round, and stood facing me, with his back to the fire. “Come, then, Helen, are you going to be a good girl?” said he.
This sounded rather too arrogant, and the smile that accompanied it did not please me. I therefore hesitated to reply. Perhaps my former answer had implied too much: he had heard my voice falter, and might have seen me brush away a tear.
“Are you going to forgive me, Helen?” he resumed, more humbly.
“Are you penitent?” I replied, stepping up to him and smiling in his face.
“Heart-broken!” he answered, with a rueful countenance, yet with a merry smile just lurking within his eyes and about the corners of his mouth; but this could not repulse me, and I flew into his arms. He fervently embraced me, and though I shed a torrent of tears, I think I never was happier in my life than at that moment.
“Then you won’t go to London, Arthur?” I said, when the first transport of tears and kisses had subsided.
“No, love,—unless you will go with me.”
“I will, gladly,” I answered, “if you think the change will amuse you, and if you will put off the journey till next week.”
He readily consented, but said there was no need of much preparation, as he should not be for staying long, for he did not wish me to be Londonized, and to lose my country freshness and originality by too much intercourse with the ladies of the world. I thought this folly; but I did not wish to contradict him now: I merely said that I was of very domestic habits, as he well knew, and had no particular wish to mingle with the world.