there is a sort of shyness in his face, a diffidence in his
address.

"Nancy, have I come back too soon? am I hurrying you?"

I raise my eyes for an instant, and then let them fall.

"No, thank you," I say, demurely, "not at all. I have had plenty of
time!"

And then, somehow, there seems to me something so ludicrous in the sound
of my own speech, that I tremble on the verge of a burst of loud and
unwilling laughter.

"Speak out all your thought to me, whatever it is," he says, in a tone
of grave entreaty, moved and tender, yet manly withal. "Look at me with
the same friendly, fearless eyes that you did last week! I know, my
dear, that you always think of others more than yourself, and I dare say
that _now_ you are afraid of hurting me! Indeed, you need not be! I am
tough and well-seasoned; I have known what pain is before now--it would
be very odd, at my time of life, if I had not! I can well bear a little
more, and be the better for it, perhaps."

I stand stupidly silent. One's outer man or woman often does an
injustice to one's inner feelings. As he speaks, my heart goes out to
him, but I can find no words in which to dress my thought.

"Nancy!" in a tone of thorough distress. "I can bear any thing but
seeing you shrink and shiver away from me, as I have seen you do from
your father."

"You _never_ will see that," reply I, laconically, gathering bravery
enough to look him in the face, as I deliver this encouraging remark.

"Do you think," he says, beginning to walk restlessly about the
room--(long ago he dropped my limp hand)--"that all this week I have had
much hope? Every time that I have caught a glimpse of myself in the
glass, I have said, 'Is this a face likely to take a child's fancy? Do
you bear much resemblance to the hero of her storybooks?' My
dear"--(stopping before me)--"you cannot think my presumption more
absurd than I do myself."

"I do not think it at all absurd," reply I, beginning to speak quite
stoutly, and to be rather diffuse than otherwise. "Perhaps I did, just
at first, when they were all laughing, and saying about your having been
at school with father; but _now_ I do not in the least--I do not care
what the boys say--I do not, really. I am not joking."

At my words he half stretches out his hand to take mine; but, as if
repressing some strong impulse, withdraws it again, and speaks quietly,
with a rather sober smile.

"I am afraid that one's soul ages more slowly than one's bo