She raised her head a little bit—in an entreating way—and the compact was sealed.
"I'll tell you what I shall do," he said, taking the hand that lay on his arm into his own. "I will stay at home, get myself into some regular work, take a small house somewhere near here, and then you'll come and be my wife, won't you, Dove?"
There was a slight pressure on his hand: that was her only answer. They walked on for some little time in silence; and then, catching a glimpse of her face, he stopped to dry the tears from her cheeks. While engaged in that interesting occupation, she said to him, with a little smile:
"It looks as if I had asked you, Will—doesn't it?"
"I don't think so," he said.
"It wouldn't matter, if I did—would it?" she asked, simply. "For you know how fond I am of you, Will."
They talked of that and a good many other relevant matters until they had reached St. Mary-Kirby. They paused for a moment on the bridge—to look at the dark shadows about the mill and the white sheen of the moonlight on the water; and then she whispered timidly:
"When shall we be married, Will?"
"We shall be maghied whenever you like, Dove," he said, lightly and cheerfully.
CHAPTER VIII.