“Now listen, Annie: I'm going to sail in the morning, away around to a place called Spencer, on Lake Huron; and I could hardly get back inside of ten or twelve days. And if I should go away without a word from you—well, I couldn't, that's all.”
“You don't mean—you don't want me to say before to-morrow?”
“Yes, that's just what I mean. You haven't anything to do to-night, have you?”
She shook, her head without looking at him. “Well, I 'll be around after supper, and we 'll take a walk, and you can tell me.”
But her courage was coming back. “No, Dick, I can't.”
“But, Annie, you don't mean—”
“Yes, I do. Why can't you stop bothering me, and just wait. Maybe then—some day—”
“It's no use—I can't. If you won't tell me to-night, surely ten—or, say, eleven—days ought to be enough. If I went off tomorrow without even being able to look forward to it—Oh, Annie, you've got to tell me, that's all. Let me see you to-night, and I 'll try not to bother you. I 'll get back in eleven days, if I have to put the schooner on my back and carry her clean across the Southern Peninsula,”—she was smiling now; she liked his extravagant moods,—“and then you 'll tell me.” He had her hand; he was gazing so eagerly, so breathlessly, that she could hardly resist. “You 'll tell me then, Annie, and you 'll make me the luckiest fellow that ever sailed out of this town. Eleven days from to-night—and I 'll come—and I 'll ask you if it is to be yes or no—and you 'll tell me for keeps. You can promise me that much, can't you?”
And Annie, holding out as long as she could, finally, with the slightest possible inclination of her head, promised.
“Where will you be this evening?” he asked, as they parted.