Masculine persistence triumphed—men are always more selfish than women—and I asked my question:—
“Norah, darling—tell me when will you be mine—my very own? When shall we be married?”
The love-light was sweet in her eyes as she answered me with a blush that made perfect the smile on her lips:—
“Nay! You should have let me ask my question first.”
“Why so, dearest?”
“Because, dear, I am thinking of the future. You know, Arthur, that I love you, and that whatever you wish, I would and shall gladly do; but you must think for me too. I am only a peasant girl—”
“Peasant!” I laughed. “Norah, you are the best lady I have ever seen! Why, you are like a queen—what a queen ought to be!”
“I am proud and happy, Arthur, that you think so; but still I am only a peasant! Look at me—at my dress. Yes! I know you like it, and I shall always prize it because it found favour in your eyes!” She smiled happily, but went on:—
“Dear, I am speaking very truly. My life and surroundings are not yours. You are lifting me to a higher grade in life, Arthur, and I want to be worthy of it and of you. I do not want any of your family or your friends to pity you and say, ‘Poor fellow, he has made a sad mistake. Look at her manners—she is not of us.’ I could not bear to hear or to know that such was said—that anyone should have to pity the man I love, and to have that pity because of me. Arthur, it would break my heart!”
As she spoke the tears welled up in the deep dark eyes and rolled unchecked down her cheeks. I caught her to my breast with the sudden instinct of protection, and cried out:—