“No, no; don’t go yet, my dear,” he cried. “If you only knew what a job it has been to work myself up to say this, you wouldn’t be so hard as to stop me.”
“Hard! Pray don’t call it hard, Mr Burge. I grieve to stop you, for you have been so truly kind to me ever since I came.”
“Well, that isn’t saying much; my dear. Betsey and me was kind—I say that ain’t right, is it? I know now—Betsey and I was kind because we always liked you, and I thought it would be so nice if some day or other you could think me good enough to be your husband.”
“Dear Mr Burge, you cut me to the heart, for I seem as if I were so ungrateful to you after all that you have done.”
“Oh, no!” he said quickly; “you’re not ungrateful. You’re too pretty and good to do anything unkind.”
“Mr Burge!”
“You see, it is like this, my dear. I’m not much of a fellow; I never was.”
“You have been the truest and kindest of friends, Mr Burge; and I esteem you very much.”
“No! Do you, though?” he cried, brightening up and smiling. “Well, that does me good. I like to hear you say that, because I know you wouldn’t say anything that was not true.”
“Indeed, I would not Mr Burge,” said Hazel, laying her hand upon his arm; and he took it quietly, and held it between both of his.