Trembling, and with her face scarlet, he led the little lady to the couch, where, snatching her hand away, she sank down, caught her handkerchief from her pocket, covered her face with it, and burst into tears.
“What have I done?” he cried. “Miss Rosebury—Miss Rosebury—I meant to say—I wished to speak—everything gone from me—half dumb—my dear Mary Rosebury—Mary—I love you with all my heart!”
As he spoke he plumped down upon his knees before her and tried to remove her hands from her face.
For a few moments she resisted, but at last she let them rest in his, and he seemed to gain courage and went on:
“It seemed so easy to tell you this; but I, who have seen death in every form, and been under fire a dozen times, feel now as weak as a girl. Mary, dear Mary, will you be my wife?”
“Oh, Dr Bolter, pray get up, it is impossible. You must be mad,” she sobbed. “I must be mad to let you say it.”
“No, no—no, no!” he cried. “If I am mad, though, let me stay so, for I never was so happy in my life.”
“Pray—pray get up!” she cried, still sobbing bitterly; “it would look so foolish if you were seen kneeling to an old woman like me.”
“Foolish! to be kneeling and imploring the most amiable, the dearest woman—the best sister in the world? Let them see me; let the whole world see me. I am proud to be here begging you—praying you to be my wife.”
“Oh! no, no, no! It is all nonsense. Oh, Dr Bolter, I—I am forty-four!”