where
else, for the rich, moist earth of one bed was blue with them. Joan was
standing near these violets,--he saw her as he turned into the walk,--a
motionless figure in heavy brown drapery.

She heard him and started from her revery. With another half-dozen steps
he was at her side.

"Don't look as if I had alarmed you," he said. "It seems such a poor
beginning to what I have come to say."

Her hand trembled so that one or two of the loose violets she held fell
at his feet. She had a cluster of their fragrant bloom fastened in the
full knot of her hair. The dropping of the flowers seemed to help her
to recover herself. She drew back a little, a shade of pride in her
gesture, though the color dyed her cheeks and her eyes were downcast.

"I cannot--I cannot listen," she said.

The slight change which he noted in her speech touched him unutterably.
It was not a very great change; she spoke slowly and uncertainly, and
the quaint northern burr still held its own, and here and there a word
betrayed her effort.

"No, no," he said, "you will listen. You gave me back my life. You will
not make it worthless. If you cannot love me," his voice shaking, "it
would have been less cruel to have left me where you found me--a dead
man,--for whom all pain was over."

He stopped. The woman trembled from head to foot. She raised her eyes
from the ground and looked at him catching her breath.

"Yo' are askin' me to be yo're wife!" she said. "Me!"

"I love you," he answered. "_You_, and no other woman!"

She waited a moment and then turned suddenly away from him, and leaned
against the tree under which they were standing, resting her face upon
her arm. Her hand clung among the ivy leaves and crushed them. Her old
speech came back in the quick hushed cry she uttered.

"I conna turn yo' fro' me," she said. "Oh! I conna!"

"Thank God! Thank God!" he cried.

He would have caught her to his breast, but she held up her hand to
restrain him.

"Not yet," she said, "not yet. I conna turn you fro' me, but theer's
summat I must ask. Give me th' time to make myself worthy--give me th'
time to work an' strive; be patient with me until th' day comes when I
can come to yo' an' know I need not shame yo'. They say I am na slow at
learnin'--wait and see how I can work for th' mon--for th' mon I love."

End of Project Gutenberg's That Lass O' Lowrie's, by Frances Hodgson Burnett

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THAT LASS O'