She looked at him—saw how earnest he was, and put down her work. The softness of her manner soothed him.
“I know, dear Agatha, that it is very wrong in me; but sometimes I can hardly believe this is all true, and that you really promised—what I heard from your own lips two days ago. Will you—out of that good heart of yours—say it again?”
“What must I say?”
“That you love—no, I don't mean that—but that you care for me a little—enough to trust me with your happiness? Do you?”
For all reply, Agatha held out the hand she had drawn back. Her lover kept it tight in that peculiar grasp of his—very soft and still, but firm as adamant.
“Thank you. You shall never regret your trust. My brother told me all you said to him on Saturday morning. I know you do not quite love me yet.”
Agatha started, it was so true.
“Still, as you have loved no one else—you are sure of that?”
She thought a minute, then lifted her candid eyes, and answered:
“Yes, quite sure!”