Bessie winced, but the stare she favored him with was both cold and disdainful.
"But, Mr. Moore," she answered, "I had something to say to which you wished to listen."
"You mean," he corrected, "you had to say something, Bessie, that I wished to hear. There never was maid more unwilling to do what she was bid than you."
"Pray hasten your words, sir. I am listening."
"Bessie," he whispered, all the music and poetry to which the love in his heart had given life vibrant in his caressing voice, "Bessie, mavourneen, let's have done with this bickering. The days of youth fly far too fast for us to waste them in contention. You are the breath of my life, darlin'. Say you 'll take me back to my old place in your heart this night and ne'er send me a-journeying again while we live."
She walked slowly to the fireplace and resting her arm on the mantel above stood looking into the blaze. Moore, encouraged by her return, drew near her.
"You know I love you deeply and truly as any woman has ever been loved," he murmured, standing so close that his warm, eager breath gently stirred and set a-quivering the tiny ringlets clustered on her neck. "And I can't bear to go on like this. You must hear me to-night, Bessie darlin', once and for all. I love you; with all my heart and all my soul I love you, dearest of girls. You planted my heart full of roses of passion the first day that I met you, and each and every bud has come to blossom. Your dear eyes have looked into mine and written your name upon my heart. There is not a curl that steals kisses from your cheek I 'd not give my life to be, unless that curl and the proud head it graces can both be mine. Ah, Bessie, dearest, Bessie, darling, be my wife and make me the happiest man on earth. Aye, or in heaven."
If he could have seen her eyes he would never have listened to the words of her reply, for in their depths shone an answer so sweet and tender and surrendering that even he, oft rejected and almost despairing wooer that he was, could not have mistaken or read as aught else but final. But, resolved not to yield yet, though a love as strong and passionate as his own was tugging at her heart-strings, she kept her face turned from him till her original determination, aided by mischief which prompted her to punish him for all the humiliation she had just suffered at his hands, sufficed to give her control of her emotions. Then she turned coldly and said:
"Tom, you really should put that into rhyme. You have never written a prettier poem."
He started at her words and drew back a pace or two.