she had thrown down with a gesture of impatience. She was too
restless to read, or to work; and the intense quietude of the great
house weighed upon her with the weight of a tomb.

All day, since she had left Stafford, his words of passionate love had
haunted her. They sang in her ears even as she spoke to her father or
Jessie, or the dogs who followed her about with wistful eyes as if they
were asking her what ailed her, and as if they would help her.

He loved her! She had said it to herself a thousand times all through
the long afternoon, the dragging evening. He loved her. It was so
strange, so incredible. They had only met three or four times; they had
said so little to each other. Why, she could remember almost every
word. He loved her, had knelt to her, he had told her so in passionate
words, with looks which made her heart tremble, her breath come fast as
she recalled them. That is, he wanted her to be his wife, to _give
herself_ to him, to be with him always, never to leave him.

The strangeness, the suddenness of the thing overwhelmed her so that
she could not think of it calmly. He had asked her to think of it, to
decide, to give him an answer. Why could she not? She had always,
hitherto, known her own mind. If anyone had asked her a question about
the estate, about the farm, she had known what to answer, important as
the question might have been. But now she seemed as if her mind were
paralyzed, as if she could not decide. Was it because she had never
thought of love; because she had never dreamt that anyone would love
her so much as to want to have her by his side for all his life?

As she looked through the window at the moonlight on the lawn, she
thought of him; called up the vision of his tall, graceful figure and
handsome face--yes; he was handsome, she knew. But she had scarcely
given a thought to his face; and only felt that it was good to have him
near her, to hear him talk in his deep voice, broken sometimes by the
short laugh which sounded almost boyish. It had been good to have him
near her--But then, she had been so lonely, had seen so few
men--scarcely any at all--Suppose when she met him next she said "No,"
told him that she could not love him, and he went away, leaving her
forever; would she be sorry?

She turned away from the window suddenly, nearly stumbling over Donald,
who was lying at her feet, his nose on his paws, his great eyes fixed
sadly and speculatively on her face, and caught