"Aye; but when will you make me completely happy?" sighed the poor fellow.
"Whew!" smiled Mary Grey, with a little bird-like whistle. "How fast we are getting on, to be sure! Why, a few minutes ago we were afraid that we were taking a liberty in coming here to call on our lady-love at all! And now we are pressing her to name the day! See here, you impatient boy, answer me this: When did I ever promise to 'make you happy' at all?" she inquired, in a bantering tone.
"But you gave me hopes—oh, do not say that you never gave me hopes!" he pleaded, turning red and pale and trembling from head to foot as before.
"Well, I don't say it; for I know I promised if ever I should marry living man I should marry you. I repeat that promise now, dear Craven," she added, gravely and tenderly.
"Ah, Heaven bless you for those blessed words! But when—when will you make me happy? Oh, if I possess your love, when—when shall I possess your hand?" he pleaded.
And then, as if suddenly ashamed of his own vehemence, he stopped in confusion.
"You have won my love, you petulant boy!" she answered, archly. Then, dropping her voice to its tenderest music, she murmured: "What would you do to win my hand?"
"Anything—anything under the sun!" he answered, wildly, and forgetting all his embarrassment. "Whatever man has done to win woman would I do to win you—more than ever man did to win woman would I do to win you! I would renounce my friends, betray my country, abjure my faith, lose my soul for you!"
"Words, words, words! You talk recklessly! You know you would not do the least one of these dreadful deeds for me," answered Mary Grey, laying her hand on his lips.
"Try me!"