“N–o!” she said, faintly, turning away her head.
“Because, Min—” I said, hesitatingly, almost abashed at my own rashness—“because, I—I—love you!”
She said nothing in reply; but she bent her head lower, so that I could not see her face; and, the little hand I held, trembled in my grasp.
At this point, too, our conversation was interrupted by the vicar asking Bessie Dasher and her sister to start the “Canadian Boat Song,” in which we all joined in harmony:—the music, borne far and wide over the expanse of resonant water, sounding like some fairy chorus of yellow-haired sea-maidens, singing fathoms deep below in ocean caves!
When I was seeing her home, however, after we had all arrived at the vicarage, and separated severally with a cheerful “good-night,” I was able to prosecute my wooing.
We were walking along side by side—she declined taking my arm, being shy, and quite unlike the frank, straightforward Min whom I had before known. I was not downhearted at this change, though:—I really felt shy, and nervous, myself!
As soon as we had got a safe distance from the others, and there was no fear of being overheard in the stillness of the night, I again spoke to her.
“Min,” I said, “do you remember what I said to you just now when we were on the river?”
She made no answer; but, quickening her steps, walked on hurriedly, I still keeping pace by her side.
“Min, my darling,” I said once more, “I love you dearer than life. Won’t you try to like me a little in return? Won’t you listen to me? Won’t you hear me?”