'Why, Jack, what is the matter?' she said carelessly. 'I thought I was unhappy this morning, but now I think no one ought to be sad to-day. So the bells tell me. Hearken!'
'I am sad, though,' poor Jack rejoined. 'I love you, Bryda. You must know it. I have loved you all my life—I shall love you till I die. I am tied to this silversmith's business—but my uncle has no children, he takes more kindly to me than he did, and the last year I have pleased him better. When he dies I shall come into the business, and then—'
Bryda turned and looked straight into Jack's frank, honest face. She tried to speak lightly.
'So after all, Jack, your mother was right, and you will be a Bristol alderman some day, or perhaps mayor.'
Jack's foot gave an impatient kick against the pebbles beneath it.
'What has that to do with the question?' he said. 'Bryda, can you care for me? Can you love me? That's the real question.'
'Jack, I have always cared for you, you know that. Now let us talk of something else.'
'No,' Jack said, 'I am not to be put off like this. Give me a plain answer. When I can give you all you ought to have, you know, will you be my wife? I love you so that if you can't promise to be my wife I don't care what becomes of me. I shall be off in one of the ships from the quay, and get drowned—drown myself, I daresay.'
'Nonsense, Jack; be sensible. I do not feel as if I could promise to marry anybody. There is trouble at home, and I am thinking more of that just now than anything else,' and in spite of herself her colour deepened on her cheeks and the tears dimmed her eyes.
'Look here, Bryda, has that villain Bayfield anything to do with this? Do you care for him? I hear he has been gallivanting after you, curse him.'