“Darling,” he cried, seizing her little hands, “you do not know where to go? Come to me. My dear, my dear, you do not know how I have learned to love you since you came like a ray of light into this household. Come to me, Meta—be my wife, and no stain shall touch you; they shall not dare to breath aught against you; place your hand in mine, and I will plant myself between you and all harm. My love, my love, I have found you. I have seen many fair women, but now I have found my fate, the sweetest fate man ever found. Say, dearest, will you be my wife?”
She sat before him white, and still, and dumb.
“Brownie, you do not answer me. Will you not crown my life with the blessing of your love? They shall never harm you. We will go away where they cannot trouble you by so much as a word. Will you not speak and give me hope?”
She drew back from him, pained and sorrowful.
“Mr. Coolidge, if I speak at all, it must be to crush all hope of any such thing as you desire,” she said, sadly, with downcast eyes and crimson cheeks.
“Meta! Miss Douglas! no!” he cried, hoarsely, his handsome face clouding with pain.
“Yes, Mr. Coolidge; hard as it is for me to wound you thus, when you offer me the greatest homage a woman can ever receive—the love of an honest heart—yet I cannot bid you hope, for I do not love you in return.”
“You have not had time to think of it. I have startled you with my abruptness; you do not know your own heart yet,” he said, his lips growing white and quivering.
“I have not, indeed, had time to think, for I did not at once imagine that you cherished any such feelings toward me. But my heart does not respond to yours. No, Mr. Coolidge, I cannot be your wife.”
“Are you sure—are you very sure you can never love me, Meta?” he pleaded, while great drops came out upon his forehead.