“Ah, the silliest woman can make
A fool of the wisest of men!”
“But they say that you are fickle,” murmured Pansy, speaking for the first time.
“It is not true, my little darling. I never really fell in love until your sweet face dawned on my vision. Then I began to realize that my engagement to Juliette was a terrible mistake, and that I would be wrong to continue it. But I kept waiting from day to day, hoping she would see how things were and throw me over herself, as she did at last, but only after I had bungled matters by telling you too soon of my love.”
Where was Pansy’s bitter resentment now? It was melting like snow in the sunshine under his eager words. Everything looked so different now in the light of his manly, straightforward explanations.
Her sad heart bounded with renewed hope, and a leaden weight seemed to be lifted from her spirits.
“Now, Pansy, you see that I was not to blame,” said her lover eagerly. “You will forgive me, will you not, and promise what I was going to ask you that day—that you will be my own little wife?”
She blushed brightly, and could not utter a word. He took her little hand tenderly in his, and whispered:
“‘Silence gives consent.’”
Presently she lifted her little head from his breast, where he had drawn it in reckless defiance of the whole world, if it had been looking on. But, fortunately, no one saw or heeded the pair of happy lovers.
“But how can I be your wife?” she whispered, in a troubled tone. “Mrs. Ives told Aunt Robbins that your family was very rich and grand—that they would never permit you to marry me.”