"You are unhappy. You have been unhappy a long, long time, and have never told me the cause. Tell me now." The heavy face relaxed. "What ever put that in your head, little one?" he asked, in a playful tone, patting the golden hair. "Tell me now," she said more eagerly. "Think of me as a woman fit to share your sorrows, not as a child to be pampered and played with, and never to be burdened with a man's sterner cares. If I am not fit to know your troubles, I am not fit to be your wife. Tell me, Paul, what it is that has taken the sunshine out of your life." "The sunshine has not been taken out of my life yet, little woman--here it is," said Paul, lightly, and he drew his fingers through the glistening hair. The girl's lucent eyes fell. "You are playing with me," she said gravely; "you are always playing with me. Am I so much a child? Are you angry with me?" "Angry with you, little one? Hardly that, I think," said Paul, and his voice sunk. "Then tell me, sweetheart. You have something to say--what is it?" "I have come to ask--" "Yes?" He hesitated. His heart was too full to speak. He began again. "Do you think it would be too great a sacrifice to give up--" "What?" she gasped. "Do you remember all you told me about my brother Hugh--that he said he loved you?" "Well?" said Greta, with a puzzled glance. "I think he spoke truly," said Paul, and his voice trembled. She drew back with agony in every line of her face. "Would it be ... do you think ... supposing I went away, far away, and we were not to meet for a time, a long time--never to meet again--could you bring yourself to love him and marry him?" Greta rose to her feet in agitation. "Him--love him!--you ask me that--you!" The girl's voice broke down into sobs that seemed to shake her to the heart's core. "Greta, darling, forgive me; I was blind--I am ashamed." "Oh, I could cry my eyes out!" she said, wiping away her tears. "Say you were only playing with me, then; say you were only playing; do say so, do!" "I will say anything--anything but the same words again--and they nearly killed me to say them." "And was this what you came to say?" Greta inquired. "No, no," he said, lifted out of his gloom by the excitement; "but another thing, and it is easier now--ten times easier now--to say it. Greta, do you think if I were to leave Cumberland and settle in another country--Australia or Canada, or somewhere far enough away--that you could give up home, and kindred, and friends, and old associations, and all the dear past, and face a new life in a new world with me? Could you do it?" Her eyes sparkled. He opened his arms, and she flew to his embrace.