Mary did not answer, but looked down; and, spite of herself, her tears would fall fast.
“Dear Mary,” he said, “the plainest and shortest way is the one that suits me best. I want you to give me your heart—you have had mine long ago, and I think you know it.”
She did not speak.
“Oh, Mary, dearest Mary, can I be mistaken? Cannot you—do not you love me?”
“Frank,” she replied, in a low and tearful voice, “it would be affectation in me to make a show of concealing my love to you. I do love you. I never knew it till that day; but since then I have known that my heart is yours.”
She said this so sadly, that he asked half seriously, half playfully,—
“Would you then wish to have it back again?”
“No, dear Frank; I cannot wish that.”
“Then one day—if we are spared—you will be my own loving wife?”
There was no reply, but only a burst of tears.