pages, stopping now and again to read
a line or two, and rather ostentatiously disregarding her companion.
He sat in silence, regarding her with a grave face for a minute or
thereabouts, and then, rising, crossed the room and placed himself
beside her, bending over her, with one hand resting on the dresser. She
did not look up in answer to this movement, but bent her head even a
little more than before above the book.

'I'm glad to be left alone with you for a minute, Miss Fellowes,' he
began gently, and with a faint tremor and hesitation in his voice,
'because I've something very special and particular to say to you.'

There he paused, and Bertha with a slight cough, which was a trifle too
casual and unembarrassed to be real, said, 'Indeed, Mr. Protheroe?' and
kept her eyes upon the book.

'They say a girl always knows,' he went on, 'and if that's true you know
already what I want to say.'

He paused, but if he expected any help from her in the way either of
assent or denial, he was disappointed. He stooped a little lower and
touched her hand with a gentle timidity, but she at once withdrew it.

'You know I love you, Bertha? You know you're dearer to me than all the
whole wide world beside?'

Still Bertha said nothing, but the hand that turned the leaves of the
book trembled perceptibly.

'I've come to ask you if you'll be my wife, dear! if you'll let me make
you my lifelong care and joy, my darling! You don't guess how much I
love you. You don't know how much your answer means to me.'

The girl rose, and, carrying the book with her, walked to the kitchen
window and looked out upon the garden, the river, and the fields,
without seeing anything. She was evidently agitated, and did not find
an answer easily. Lane followed her, and when for a moment she dared
to look up at him she encountered a look so tender, anxious, and ardent
that she lowered her eyes in quick confusion. He seized her hand, and
for a brief instant she let it rest in his.

'Speak to me,' he murmured, caressingly and pleadingly. 'Tell me.'

'I don't understand you, Mr. Protheroe,' the girl said pantingly.

'Not understand me, dear? 'he whispered; 'I am asking you to be my
wife.'

'I understand that,' she answered, drawing herself away from him,
and speaking with difficulty. 'It is _you_ I don't understand.
You--yourself.'

'Tell me how, darling,' he said softly.

'You tell me,' she said, lifting a pale and agitated face, 'that I can't