is the same thing
always: I am obnoxious to you; we cannot put together two sentences
without coming to open war."

"But whose fault was it this time? Think of what you accuse me! I did
not believe you could be so rude to me!" with reproachful emphasis.

Here she directs a slow lingering glance at him from her violet eyes.
There are visible signs of relenting about her companion. He colors,
and persistently refuses, after the first involuntary glance, to allow
his gaze to meet hers again; which is, of all others, the surest
symptom of a coming rout. There are some eyes that can do almost
anything with a man. Molly's eyes are of this order. They are her
strongest point; and were they her sole charm, were she deaf and dumb,
I believe it would be possible to her, by the power of their expressive
beauty alone, to draw most hearts into her keeping.

"Did you mean what you said just now, that you had no love for me?" he
asks, with a last vain effort to be stern and unforgiving. "Am I to
believe that I am no more to you than any other man?"

"Believe nothing," murmurs she, coming nearer to lay a timid hand upon
his arm, and raising her face to his, "except this, that I am your own
Molly."

"Are you?" cries he, in a subdued tone, straining her to his heart, and
speaking with an emotional indrawing of the breath that betrays more
than his words how deeply he is feeling, "my very own? Nay, more than
that, Molly, you are my all, my world, my life: if ever you forget me,
or give me up for another, you will kill me: remember that."

"I will remember it. I will never do it," replies she, soothingly, the
touch of motherhood that is in all good women coming to the front as
she sees his agitation. "Why should I, when you are such a dear old
boy? Now come and sit down again, and be reasonable. See, I will tie
you up with my flowery chain as punishment for your behavior,
and"--with a demure smile--"the kiss you stole in the _melee_
without my permission."

"This is the chain by which I hold you," he says, rather sadly,
surveying his wrists, round which the daisies cling. "The links that
bind _me_ to _you_ are made of sterner stuff. Sweetheart,"
turning his handsome, singularly youthful face to hers, and speaking
with an entreaty that savors strongly of despair, "do not let your
beauty be my curse!"

"Why, who is fanciful now?" says Molly, making a little grimace at him.
"And truly, to hear you speak, one must believe love is bli