"Oh, don't—I can't—"
"Not just at once, dear,—I can't hope for that. But, can't you learn,—can't you try to learn—If I help you? Brownie,—that's all my own name for you,—isn't it, you nutbrown maid! Brownie, darling,—you must love me. I can't bear it if you don't!"
Azalea looked mystified,—then amazed,—and then her face lighted up with a sudden radiant happiness,—she seemed glorified, exalted.
Van Reypen caught her in his arms.
"You do love me,—you witch! you beauty! Azalea, you look transfigured!
You do love me,—tell me so!"
Then her face changed. She repulsed him,—she sought to leave his encircling clasp.
"Don't!" she cried, "don't! It is horrible!"
She burst into uncontrollable tears, and her whole frame shook with her turbulent sorrow.
"Have I been too abrupt?" asked Van Reypen, filled with dismay. "Give me a little hope, dear, just say you'll let me tell you this some other time, and I'll not trouble you now."
"Oh, it isn't that," Azalea sobbed, "it's—oh, no! I can't tell you,—it's too dreadful! Let me go!" and she ran from him and hurried back to the house and up to her own room.