“Clarice,” he said, gently, “do you know what I have sought you for?”
“No,” she replied, and he noticed something of dreaminess in her voice and look.
“I came over to Mount Severn this evening especially to ask you to be my wife.”
Something like a half-hysterical sob came from her lips.
“Your wife! But you say nothing of loving me.”
“Should I ask you to be my wife if I did not love you, Clarice?” he asked, carried away, despite himself, by the passion of her words and the love in her face. He never forgot her half-tearful joy.
“You love me, Ronald! Do not deceive me; do not tell me that unless it is quite true.”
He could not have said what he intended to say had his life been the forfeit. He had meant to own to her that his love lay in ashes; but he could not hold those trembling hands in his, and look at those quivering lips, yet speak such words as must stab that tender heart.
“I do love you, Clarice. Why, how many years is it since we were children together, since we played at love and jealousy?”
“But,” she interrupted, “you have had another love since then.”