ld why your words and looks have such effect on me as
to make me behave as I did last night. Shame on me for such conduct!
I know its evil, and how preposterous it must make what I have to tell
you. I don't know now long it has been, but almost ever since I came
here, a feeling has been growing up in me towards you, such as I can
never have for any one else.'

The flame rushed into Amy's cheeks, and no one could have told what she
felt, as he paused again, and then went on speaking more quickly, as if
his emotion was less under control.

'If ever there is to be happiness for me on earth, it must be through
you; as you, for the last three years, have been all my brightness here.
What I feel for you is beyond all power of telling you, Amy! But I know
full well all there is against me--I know I am untried, and how can I
dare to ask one born to brightness and happiness to share the doom of my
family?'

Amy's impulse was that anything shared with him would be welcome; but
the strength of the feeling stifled the power of expression, and she
could not utter a word.

'It seems selfish even to dream of it,' he proceeded, 'yet I must,--I
cannot help it. To feel that I had your love to keep me safe, to know
that you watched for me, prayed for me, were my own, my Verena,--oh Amy!
it would be more joy than I have ever dared to hope for. But mind,' he
added, after another brief pause, 'I would not even ask you to answer me
now, far less to bind yourself, even if--if it were possible. I know
my trial is not come; and were I to render myself, by positive act,
unworthy even to think of you, it would be too dreadful to have
entangled you, and made you unhappy. No. I speak now, because I ought
not to remain here with such feelings unknown to your father and
mother.'

At that moment, close on the other side of the box-tree clump, were
heard the wheels of Charles's garden-chair, and Charlotte's voice
talking to him, as he made his morning tour round the garden. Amy flew
off, like a little bird to its nest, and never stopped till, breathless
and crimson, she darted into the dressing room, threw herself on her
knees, and with her face hidden in her mother's lap, exclaimed in
panting, half-smothered, whispers, which needed all Mrs. Edmonstone's
intuition to make them intelligible,--

'O mamma, mamma, he says--he says he loves me!'

Perhaps Mrs. Edmonstone was not so very much surprised; but she had
no time to do more than raise and ki