"Do you think I could do anything towards the restoration, Lucy?" he continued, drawing her closer to his side.
"What could you do?"
"Watch you, and tend you, and love you. And--and make you my wife."
"Don't jest, Karl," she said, whispering and trembling. "You know it may not be."
"But if Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve say that it may be?"
The tone of his voice was redolent of anything but jesting: it was one of deep truthful emotion. Lucy looked questioningly up at him.
"Oh Karl, don't play with me! What do you mean?"
He caught the sweet face, and held it to his. His own hands were trembling, his race was pale as hers. But she could not mistake his grave earnestness.
"It means, my darling, that you are to be mine for ever. My wife. They are going to give you to me: your father brought me here that I might myself break it to you."
A minute's doubting look; a slight shiver as if the joy were too great; and then with a sigh she let her head fall on his breast--its future resting-place.