“I am glad for your sake, Miss Erma, but not for my own. I wish only your society,” he said, taking her small, white hand in his, “not only for the evenings of the coming month, but for all time. I came to ask you to be my wife,” and accustomed as was Fred to making proposals of marriage, his voice trembled with apprehension as to the answer.
Erma’s face flushed, then paled, and she remained silent; a silence which Fred misconstrued.
“I am aware that it was my duty to have first asked your parents’ consent, but you have given but little encouragement that you cared for me, and now this expected visitor has unsettled my plans.”
Erma was still silent; she seemed to be collecting her thoughts for an answer.
“Promise me that you will be my wife; promise now, before a stranger steps in to prevent us being alone together! If you will consent, I will seek the consent of your father and mother before I leave this evening.”
“I must have time to consider,” said Erma; “you cannot expect me to take such an important step without reflection, or consultation with papa and mamma.”
“But you can certainly give me some hope, or appoint some early date when you can give me your decision!”
“Yes, I will appoint a time,” she said, gently. “When Anita’s visit is over, if you ask me again I will give you my decision. There is no need to speak to papa and mamma in regard to it; their only wish is for my happiness. They could say no more to you than I have already done, and I am sure that they will give free and full consent to any choice I may make.”
“But I would be so much happier if you would promise me now, so much more settled in mind than if kept in suspense for more than a month.”
“The time will soon pass, and we must bend all our thoughts toward making Anita’s visit pleasant. We will take her out driving and on horseback. Cecil Courtney would, I think, help make a party of four for many a pleasant expedition.”