“Tell me this, Annie,—haven't you an aunt or anything here in town?”
“Yes,”—her voice was hardly audible,—“Aunt Lizzie lives up by the waterworks.”
“Do you go up there much?”
“Sometimes.”
“Won't you go to-day, and stay over till to-morrow about this time?”
“Why?”
“It may save you annoyance. I think some disagreeable things are going to happen here—I'd rather not have you at home. It's only on your own account.”
“I don't see what can happen to me at home.”
“Nothing will happen to you, but don't ask me to tell you now. To-morrow evening I 'll come up for you and bring you down, and then I 'll tell everything. You see, I must have your answer to-morrow. I shall probably have to go right away, and I couldn't go thinking I had left this—the one thing of all that I care about—unsettled. I want you to know that everything in the world I have to offer you is yours forever. I want you to know this, and then, when you've thought it over and realized what it means for both of us, I want you to come to me and give me your hand and tell me that—that it's all right—that you give me everything, too.” A long silence. “Let's sail up toward the waterworks now, Annie. I can drop you off there at the pier, and bring the Captain down alone.”
She looked again toward the Merry Anne.