"Ivy, perhaps I have been misunderstanding you. I will at least find out the truth. Ivy, do you know that I love you, that I have loved you almost from the first, that I would gladly here and now take you to my heart and keep you here forever?"
"I do not know it," faltered Ivy, half beside herself.
"Know it now, then! I am older than you, and I seem to myself so far removed from you that I have feared to ask you to trust your happiness to my keeping, lest I should lose you entirely; but sometimes you say or do something which gives me hope. My experience has been very different from yours. I am not worthy to clasp your purity and loveliness. Still I would do it, if—Tell me, Ivy, does it give you pain or pleasure?"
Ivy extricated her hands from his, deliberately drew a footstool, and knelt on it before him,—then took his hands, as he had before held hers, gazed steadily into his eyes, and said,—
"Mr. Clerron, are you in earnest? Do you love me?"
"I am, Ivy. I do love you."
"How do you love me?"
"I love you with all the strength and power that God has given me."
"You do not simply pity me? You have not, because you heard from Mrs. Simm, or suspected, yourself, that I was weak enough to mistake your kindness and nobleness,—you have not in pity resolved to sacrifice your happiness to mine?"
"No, Ivy,—nothing of the kind. I pity only myself. I reverence you, I think. I have hoped that you loved me as a teacher and friend. I dared not believe you could ever do more; now something within tells me that you can. Can you, Ivy? If the love and tenderness and devotion of my whole life can make you happy, happiness shall not fail to be yours."