“Will you let me carry you?”
She looked in his face again, and then dropped her eyes, and hesitated.
“I wouldn't offer, dear, if there were any other way. But you mustn't walk. Indeed, you must not; you may lame yourself for life.”
He spoke very quietly, with his eyes fixed on the ground, though his heart was beating so that he feared she would hear it.
“Very well,” she said; “but I'm very heavy.”
So he lifted her gently, and stepped off down the ride, carrying his whole world in his arms, in an indescribable flutter of joy, and triumph, and fear. He had gone some forty yards or so, when he staggered, and stopped for a moment.
“Oh, pray put me down—pray do! You'll hurt yourself. I'm too heavy.”
For the credit of muscular Christianity, one must say that it was not her weight, but the tumult in his own inner man, which made her bearer totter. Nevertheless, if one is wholly unused to the exercise, the carrying of a healthy young English girl weighing a good eight stone, is as much as most men can conveniently manage.
“I'll just put you down for a moment,” he said. “Now, take care of the foot;” and he stooped and placed her tenderly against one of the oaks which bordered the ride, standing by her side without looking at her. Neither of them spoke for a minute. Then he asked, still looking away down the ride, “How is the foot?”
“Oh, pretty well,” she answered, cheerfully. “Now, leave me here, and go for help. It is absurd of me to mind being left, and you mustn't carry me any more.”