“Mary, dearest Mary, what am I to understand? Do your parents object to your engaging yourself to me? Oh, surely it is not so?”
“No, Frank; they have not objected—not exactly—but—”
She hesitated and looked down.
“Oh, why then not give me a plain ‘Yes’ at once? You own that your heart is mine—you know that my heart is yours—why not then promise to be mine altogether?”
“It is true, dear Frank,” she replied slowly, “that my heart is yours—I cannot take it back if I would—but it may be my duty not to give my hand with it.”
“Your duty! Oh, Mary, what a cold, cruel speech! Why your duty?”
“Well,” she replied, “the plain truth is best, and best when soonest spoken. You must know, dear Frank, how we all here feel about the sin and misery caused by strong drink. And you must know—oh, forgive me for saying it, but I must say it, I must be open with you now on this subject—you must know that we have reason to fear that your own liking for beer and wine and such things has been, for the last year or two, on the increase. And oh, we fear—we fear that, however unconsciously, you may be on the downward road to—to—”
She could not finish her sentence.
Frank hung down his head, and turned half away, the colour flushing up to the top of his fair forehead. He tried to speak, but could not for a while. At last, in a husky voice, he whispered,—
“And so you will give me up to perish, body and soul, and to go down hill with all my might and main?”