"As sure as that I breathe. Now, Elizabeth, make me as sure that I am loved in return."
"It seems very strange, Mr. Bruce," said Lizzie.
"What seems strange? Why should it? For a month I've been trying, in a hundred dumb ways, to make it plain; and now, when I swear it, it only seems strange!"
"What do you love me for?"
"For? For yourself, Elizabeth."
"Myself? I am nothing."
"I love you for what you are,—for your deep, kind heart,—for being so perfectly a woman."
Lizzie drew away her hand, and her lover rose and stood before her again. But now she looked up into his face, questioning when she should have answered, drinking strength from his entreaties for her replies. There he stood before her, in the glow of the firelight, in all his gentlemanhood, for her to accept or reject. She slowly rose and gave him the hand she had withdrawn.
"Mr. Bruce, I shall be very proud to love you," she said.
And then, as if this effort was beyond her strength, she half staggered back to the sofa again. And still holding her hand, he sat down beside her. And there they were still sitting when they heard the Doctor and his sister come in.