"Cheat yourself! Mr. Dysart, ain't I all right?" "I think you should give her a start; she's the girl, you know," says Dysart. "There now, go. That's very good. Five yards, Tommy, is a small allowance for a little thing like Mabel. Steady now, you two! One--Good gracious, they're off," says he, turning to Miss Kavanagh with a sigh of relief mingled with amusement. "They had no idea of waiting for more than one signal. I hope they will meet this Bridget, and get back to their mother." "They are not going to her just now. They are going on to the Court to spend the afternoon with Bertie," says Joyce; "Barbara told me so last night. Dear things! How sweet they looked!" "They are the prettiest children I know," says Dysart--a little absent perhaps. He falls into silence for a moment or two, and then suddenly looks at her. He advances a step. CHAPTER XIX. "A continual battle goes on in a child's mind between what it knows and what it comprehends." "Well?" says he. He advances even nearer, and dropping on a stone close to her, takes possession of one of her hands. "As you can't make up your mind to him; and, as you say, you like me, say something more." "More?" "Yes. A great deal more. Take the next move. Say--boldly--that you will marry me!" Joyce grows a little pale. She had certainly been prepared for this speech, had been preparing herself for it all the long weary wakeful night, yet now that she hears it, it seems as strange, as terrible, as though it had never suggested itself to her in its vaguest form. "Why should I say that?" says she at last, stammering a little, and feeling somewhat disingenuous. She had known, yet now she is trying to pretend that she did not know. "Because I ask you. You see I put the poorest reason at first, and because you say I am not hateful to you, and because----" "Well?" "Because, when a man's last chance of happiness lies in the balance, he will throw his very soul into the weighing of it--and knowing this, you may have pity on me." As though pressed down by some insupportable weight, the girl rises and makes a little curious gesture as if to free herself from it. Her face, still pale, betrays an inward struggle. After all, why cannot she give herself to him? Why can't she love him? He loves her; love, as some poor fool says, begets love. And he is honest. Yes, honest! A pang shoots through her breast. That, when all is told, is the principal thing. He is not uncertain--untrustworthy--double-faced, as _some_ men are. Again that cruel pain contracts her heart. To be able to believe in a person, to be able to trust implicitly in each lightest word, to read the real meaning in every sentence, to see the truth shining in the clear eyes, this is to know peace and happiness; and yet-- "You know all," says she, looking up at him, her eyes compressed, her brow frowning; "I am uncertain of myself, nothing seems sure to me, but if you wish it----" "Wish it!" clasping her hands closer.