He stopped, for, in spite of his efforts to be brotherly, there was a sense of sinking at his heart which slightly embittered his tone.
“Is true love, then, so easily cured?”
May looked up in his face as she asked the question. There was something in the look and in the tone which caused George Aspel’s heart to beat like a sledge-hammer. He stooped down, and, looking into her eyes,—still in a brotherly way, said—
“Is it possible, May, that you could trifle with my feelings?”
“No, it is not possible,” she answered promptly.
“Oh! May,” continued Aspel, in a low, earnest tone; “if I could only dare to think,—to believe,—to hope, that—”
“Forgive me, May, I’m so sorry,” cried her brother Phil, as he sprang up the steps; “I did my best to hurry through with it. I’m afraid I’ve kept you and George waiting very long.”
“Not at all,” replied May, with unquestionable truth.
“If you could have only kept us waiting five minutes longer!” thought Aspel, but he only said—“Come along, Phil, I’ll go home with you to-night.”
The evening was fine—frosty and clear.