in, his thoughts appear to wander; and some passion, not born of
the present moment, but borrowed from some other hour, fills his tone.

"Yes," says Clarissa, nervously, questioningly, feeling poor in words,
now that the great crisis of her life has come.

"So I am here," he goes on, softly, "to solve my doubt, to gain at
least a rest from the gnawing suspense that for so long I have
endured. Need I tell you that I love you?--that" (he pauses, and a
faint contraction of the features, that dies almost as it is born,
disfigures his face for a second)----"that you are the one woman in
all the world upon whom I have set my heart?"

There is silence. For Clarissa, an intense joy holds her mute; the
very intensity of her happiness checks the flow of speech. He, too,
seems lost in thought. Presently, however, he breaks the silence, and
this time a faint anxiety may be discernible in his voice, though his
face is calm and composed, as usual.

"You do not speak, Clarissa. I have told you of my love, and you are
silent. I now ask if you can love me? At least, give me an answer.
Dearest,"--glancing at her averted face, and seeing the shy blush that
adds another charm to its beauty,--"tell me the truth."

"I can; I do love you!" says Clarissa, sweetly, and with perfect
trust. She slips her hand into his. Raising his hat, he lifts the
slender fingers to his lips, and kisses them; and, then,
together--still hand in hand--they walk along, speechless, yet
seemingly content.

The road is dusty; and a few drops of rain fall, like mild blessings,
into its parched furrows. The roadside flowers, drooping and languid,
fling their rich perfume, with lavish generosity, upon the motionless
air. Some sheep, in a far-off meadow, bleat mournfully, and answer
back the echo that mocks their lament.

"You have made me happier than I ever hoped to be; but you have not
yet said you will marry me." The words come from Horace, but sound
curiously far away, the very stillness and sadness of the evening
rendering them more distant. Clarissa, glancing at him, can see he is
white as Death.

"How pale he is!" she thinks, and then makes herself happy in the
belief that he is terribly in earnest about this matter, and that his
love for her is infinite.

"Yes, I shall marry you," she says, with tender seriousness. To her,
this promise is a solemn bond, that nothing but death or falsehood can
cancel.

"When?"

"Oh, Horace, I cannot answer that ques