"Well! what is it?" she asked, curtly. The incisiveness of her tone brought life into me, as a probe sometimes brings a patient out of stupor.
"Julia," I said, "are you quite sure you love me enough to be happy with me as my wife?"
She opened her eyes very widely, and arched her eyebrows at the question, laughed a little, and then drooped her head over the work in her hands.
"Think of it well, Julia," I urged.
"I know you well enough to be as happy as the day is long with you," she replied, the color rushing to her face. "I have no vocation for a single life, such as so many of the girls here have to make up their minds to. I should hate to have nothing to do and nobody to care for. Every night and morning I thank God that he has ordained another life for me. He knows how I love you, Martin."
"What was I to say to this? How was I to set my foot down to crush this blooming happiness of hers?
"You do not often look as if you loved me," I said at last.
"That is only my way," she answered. "I can't be soft and purring like many women. I don't care to be always kissing and hanging about anybody. But if you are afraid I don't love you enough—well! I will ask you what you think in ten years' time."
"What would you say if I told you I had once loved a girl better than I do you?" I asked.
"That's not true," she said, sharply. "I've known you all your life, and you could not hide such a thing from your mother and me. You are only laughing at me, Martin."