“Now,” he said, smiling, “you see me. Can you doubt, dear, that I should ever be untrue to you?”
“No, no! oh, no, Luke,” she cried.
“Neither could I, dearest,” he said, softly. “I am a very plain, unimpulsive man, wanting, perhaps, in the soft speech and ways that are said to please women; but I think my heart is right, and that in spite of my quiet ways I love you very, very dearly.”
“I know, I know you do,” sobbed the girl.
“Yes, and I trust you, my dear,” he said. “I know that you could never give look or word to another that would cause me pain.”
“No, no, dear Luke, I could not,” she sobbed; “but I want you with me. I cannot bear for you to leave me helpless here.”
“Nonsense, my little pet,” he said, tenderly. “The years will soon slip by, and then all will be well. There, we understand each other, do we not?”
“Yes, yes, Luke, I think so,” she sobbed.
“One kiss, then, darling, the last I shall take, perhaps, for years, and then—”
“Oh, no, not now—not now,” she cried, hastily, as he sought to take her in his arms in the sheltered lane. “Uncle is coming with Mr Cyril Mallow;” and then she moaned passionately to herself, “Him again! Oh, Luke, Luke, I wish that I was dead.”