"True as that God now hears us, my darling, whom I hope yet to call my wife!"
"O, say it again and again, dear Harry," said she, in a low voice like a whisper; "I did so doubt it once--did so doubt that you would ever, ever love me, who--who--loved you so," she continued, growing very pale. "It may be unwomanly in me to say this, Harry; but I am not ashamed to own it now."
"To a poor cripple, a warlike fragment from the Crimea," said I, with a smile, as caressingly I drew her head down on my shoulder; and while I toyed with her dark-brown hair, and gazed into her tender violet-coloured eyes, I thought, "How can a man love any but a woman with eyes and hair like Winny's?"
(At that moment I quite forgot how fatuously I had worshipped the thick golden tresses, the snow-white skin, and deep black eyes of Valerie. And it was for me that Winny had declined poor Phil, Sir Watkins, and some one else! O, I certainly owed her some reparation!)
"Bless you, darling, for your love," said I; "and I think our marriage will make good Sir Madoc so happy."
"You were ever his favourite, Harry."
"And you have actually loved me, Winny--"
"Ever since I was quite a little girl," she replied, in a low voice, while blushing deeply now.
"Ah, how blind I have been to the best interests of my heart! I always loved you, Winifred; but I never knew how much until now."
"I am sure, Harry, that I--that I shall--"