"I cannot but be, Cora," said I, taking her hands in mine, and drawing her into the recess of an oriel window; "and she is herself so proud and reserved. I am sure that she knows what you have seen, Cora; at least, what my uncle says you have detected,—that—that——"
"What, Newton? How rambling and mysterious you are!"
"That I love her."
"You are sure she knows this?" asked Cora.
"Yes, my dear cousin; it is impossible that the regard with which she has inspired me could fail to be known, seen, or felt by her—I mean that it must have been apparent to her, by a thousand mute indications, since we first met in England. It is so to you, is it not?"
"Ye—yes," replied Cora, with her face averted, for no doubt she was smiling at my earnest simplicity.
"Do you think she would tolerate attentions that were valueless, or would trifle with me?"
"I cannot say."
"But you are her particular friend. Oh, Cora, be mine too!"
"What on earth do you mean?" asked Cora, showing me still only her pretty profile; "you cannot wish me to propose to her for you?"