“I do not know that I understand what love is—that is, as you look upon it.” She spoke in a low, soft, but unhesitating manner, with her eyes still upon the ground. “I know that I think a great deal of you—that I would risk my life at any time to keep you from harm. I am so fond of you, indeed, that I can not deceive you by saying that I love you, when I am not sure about it.”
This was disappointing to Harry, but, as a moment’s reflection revealed to him the admirable spirit which prompted it, he could but respect and love her all the more.
“I was wrong in pressing you to answer such a question, before you had time to think over it. Let it go for the present, and I will wait until you are fully ready. But I can not deny myself asking one thing more.”
He paused a moment as if waiting for permission, and she raised her wonderfully handsome eyes and looked in his face.
“What I want to ask, Little Rifle, is whether you are willing to give me a promise?”
“Ask me whatever you wish.”
“If you say you are unable to know, in your own heart, what the nature of love is, of course there is no one who has a place before me in your affections?”
The face of the girl expanded into a smile, as she answered:
“Of course not; how could there be?”
“I didn’t know but what the old man was jealous of me.”