"That was Mrs. Raymond, my partner's wife. But what a strange question for you to ask, Alice. I supposed you had consented to take that name, if ever any one. Mr. Wilde, I received your message through Mr. Raymond, but I knew you were once too sincere a friend of mine, and are always too honorable a man, to refuse me a chance of explanation."
"Say your say," was the raftsman's curt reply.
"You need not speak one word, Philip. It is I who ought to beg your forgiveness, that I have wronged you by doubting you. Love—oh, love, should never doubt—never be deceived!" exclaimed Alice.
"It would have taken much to have disturbed my faith in you, Alice."
"Because I had every motive for loving you; while you—you had pride, prejudice, rank, fashion, every thing to struggle against in choosing me."
"Indeed!" cried Philip. "Yes, every thing, to be sure!" and he cast such an expressive glance over her youthful loveliness that she blushed with the delicious consciousness of her own charms. "Old, ugly, awkward, and ignorant, how ashamed I shall be of my wife!"
"But, Philip!" her tearful eyes, with the smiles flashing through them, made the rest of her excuses for her.
Holding her hand, which was all the caress the presence of strangers would permit, Philip turned to the raftsman.
"I asked you for your daughter's hand, in the letter which I sent you on the return of the young man who brought me from your home, last autumn, since your sudden change of plans prevented my asking you in person. I have not yet had your answer."
When he said "letter" Alice's eyes turned to Ben, who had been standing within hearing all this time; he met her questioning look now with one of stubborn despair.