He sprang up and followed her, took her hand, and, with gentle compulsion, made her sit down upon a bank; and then he sank beside her, exclaiming eagerly, vehemently, yet in a low, half-smothered tone:
"Marian, I love you! I never spoke these words to woman before, for I never loved before. Marian, the first moment that I saw you I loved you, without knowing what new life it was that had kindled in my nature. I have loved you more and more every day! I love you more than words can tell or heart conceive! I only live in your presence! Marian! not one word or glance for me? Oh, speak! Turn your dear face toward me," he said, putting his hand gently around her head. "Speak to me, Marian, for I adore—I worship you!"
"I do not deserve to be loved in that way. I do not wish it, for it is wrong—idolatrous," she said, in a low, trembling voice.
"Oh! what do you mean? Is the love upon which my life seems to hang so offensive to you? Say, Marian! Oh! you are compassionate by nature; how can you keep me in the torture of suspense?"
"I do not keep you so."
"You will let me love you?"
Marian slipped her hand in his; that was her reply.
"You will love me?"
For all answer she gently pressed his fingers. He pressed her hand to his heart, to his lips, covering it with kisses.
"Yet, oh! speak to me, dearest; let me hear from your lips that you love me—a little—but better than I deserve. Will you? Say, Marian! Speak, dearest girl!"