“I mean,” said Amy, as if answering his thoughts, “that there may sometimes be reasons why even lovers should not marry—reasons which every noble man and woman understand; and therefore I do not agree with you that it is always a pity for a girl not to be married.”
Lawrence Newt said nothing. Amy Waring’s voice almost trembled with emotion, for she knew that her companion might easily misunderstand what she said; and yet there was no way to help it. At any rate, thought she, he will see that I do not mean to drop into his arms.
They walked silently on. The people in the street passed them like spectres. The great city hummed around them unheard. Lawrence Newt said to himself, half bitterly, “So you have waked up at last, have you? You have found that because a beautiful young woman is kind to you, it does not follow that she will one day be your wife.”
Neither spoke. “She sees,” thought Lawrence Newt, “that I love her, and she wishes to spare me the pain of hearing that it is in vain.”
“At least,” he thought, with tenderness and longing toward the beautiful girl that walked beside him—“at least, I was not mistaken. She was nobler and lovelier than I supposed.”
At length he said,
“I have written to ask Hope Wayne to go and hear my preacher to-morrow. Miss Amy, will you go too?”
She looked at him and bowed. Her eyes were glistening with tears.
“My dearest Miss Amy,” said Lawrence Newt, impetuously, seizing her hand, as her face turned toward him.
“Oh! please, Mr. Newt—please—” she answered, hastily, in a tone of painful entreaty, withdrawing her hand from his grasp, confused and very pale.