There followed a silence. Things rushed into and over Lois's mind with such a sweep and confusion, that she hardly knew what she was thinking or feeling. All her positions were knocked away; all her assumptions were found baseless; her defences had been erected against nothing; her fears and her hopes were alike come to nought. That is, bien entendu, her old fears and her old hopes; and amid the ruins of the latter new ones were starting, in equally bewildering confusion. Like little green heads of daffodils pushing up above the frozen ground, and fair blossoms of hepatica opening beneath a concealing mat of dead leaves. Ah, they would blossom freely by and by; now Lois hardly knew where they were or what they were.
Seeing her utterly silent and moveless, Mr. Dillwyn did probably the wisest thing he could do, and drove on. For some time the horses trotted and the bells jingled; and by too swift approaches that wilderness of lights which marked the city suburb came nearer and nearer. When it was very near and they had almost entered it, he drew in his reins again and the horses tossed their heads and walked.
"Lois, I think it is fair I should have another answer to my question now."
"What question?" she asked hurriedly.
"You know, I was so daring as to ask to have the care of you for the rest of your natural life—or of mine. What do you say to it?"
Lois said nothing. She could not find words. Words seemed to tumble over one another in her mind,—or thoughts did.
"What answer are you going to give me?" he asked again, more gravely.
"You know, Mr. Dillwyn," said Lois stammeringly, "I never thought,—I never knew before,—I never had any notion, that—that—that you thought so."—
"Thought so?—about what?"
"About me."