“And—and I repeat it now,” he said.
He looked at her again. Her eyes filled with sudden tears.
“What is the matter, darling?” was his next remark. “Oh, Florence! I love you with all my heart and soul. I love you for yourself—absolutely and entirely. Say you will love me; do—do give me hope. Don’t throw yourself away on some worthless fellow. Give me a chance, Florence.”
Florence was a good deal startled. All girls have dreamt of their first proposal, and when the proposal comes it is generally as unlike their dreams as any one thing can be unlike another. But there was something about this one, coming as it did at this special time, which touched the girl inexpressibly.
“Will you give me,” she said, “one month in which to consider the matter?”
He thought of his debt, that debt which must be met in a month’s time. He could not keep his father in uncertainty until then.
“No,” he said. “No; say now that you will marry me—now; promise me now, my own little Florence. If you care for me the least bit now, you will love me twice as well in a month’s time.”
“Give me a week then,” she answered.
“I must think the matter over for a week—and say just once again to me that you would like me to be as poor as a church mouse in order to show me how much you care for me.”
He was obliged to be satisfied with this, but he talked love to her all the way home, and before they reached the village of Langdale he had even kissed her once on her forehead. Oh yes; he was in love. All was right.