“Are you?” he said, with instant concern. “I am sorry. If I could help you—if I had anything of my own—or if they will let me finish my machine; then I shall have all the money I want, and I will help you; I will give you all you need. I will give to all who ask!” he said, joyfully; then again, abruptly: “But no; but no; I am not allowed to finish it.”
“Nathaniel, what I was going to say was—I am real poor. I got James’s pension, and our house out on the upper road;—do you mind it—a mite of a house, with a big elm right by the gate? And woods on the other side of the road? Real shady and pleasant. And I got eight hens and a cow;—well, she’ll come in in September, and I’ll have real good milk all winter. Maybe this time I could raise the calf, if it’s a heifer. Generally I sell it; but if you—well, it might pay to raise it, if—we—” Lizzie stammered with embarrassment.
Nathaniel had forgotten her again; his head had fallen forward on his breast, and he sighed heavily.
“You see, I am poor,” Lizzie said; “you wouldn’t have comforts.”
Nathaniel was silent.
Lizzie laughed, nervously. “Well? Seems queer; but—will you?”
Nathaniel, waking from his troubled dream, said, patiently: “What did you say? I ask your pardon; I was not listening.”
“Why,” Lizzie said, her face very red, “I was just saying—if—if you didn’t mind getting married, Nathaniel, you could come and live with me?”
“Married?” he said, vacantly. “To whom?”
“Me,” she said.