"I don't think I have ever deserved the name of gossip," observed Mildred, quietly.
"Well, Mildred, I do not know that you have. But it is not all girls who possess your calm good sense. I thought it might be as well to give even you a caution."
"William, you are scarcely like yourself to-night," she said, anxiously. "To suppose a caution in this case necessary for me!"
He had begun to whistle, and did not answer. It was a verse of "Robin Adair," the song Charlotte was so fond of. When the verse was whistled through, he spoke—
"How very bright the stars are to-night! I think it must be a frost."
Inexperienced as Mildred was practically, she yet felt that this was not the usual conversation of a lover on the day of declaration, unless he was a remarkably cool one. While she was wondering, he resumed his whistling—a verse of another song, this time.
Mildred looked up at him. His face was lifted towards the heavens, but she could see it perfectly in the light of the night. He was evidently thinking more of the stars than of her, for his eyes were roving from one constellation to another. She looked down again, and remained silent.
"So you like my choice, Mildred!" he presently resumed.
"Choice of what?" she asked.
"Choice of what! As if you did not know! Choice of a wife."