He paused a moment, just glancing at her, his face growing pale and anxious with his emotion; then he went on, rapidly: “You know now, dear, what I want to say to you. I love you—I love you, my darling, and I want you for my own, my cherished wife. “I fear you will think me presuming,” he hastened to say, as he saw the rich color flash over cheek, neck, and even to the tips of her delicate fingers, “for you have only met me two or three times; but you cannot know how, for the last six months, I have sought you continually, this love growing in my heart all the while. “Yes,” he added, as she gave a slight start of surprise, “I met you first last September, though you were not conscious of the fact, and I meant then to make your acquaintance. But your aunt died, and you went away somewhere, and I, deeply disappointed, lost sight of you entirely. You can judge of my surprise and pleasure when you came aboard the steamer at New York, although you cannot judge of my feelings when you stumbled, and I caught and held you, just a moment, in my arms. I had been thinking of you continually; your bright face dwelt in my heart like a picture, but at that moment I became conscious that you, and you alone, could make life worth the living to me. “I resolved then that I would know you before the voyage was finished; but you were sick all the time, and I only caught glimpses of you when they bore you from your stateroom to the coach. Then I saw you in London at the opera, and the long-desired introduction took place. I resolved to cultivate the acquaintance, and called at Mr. Coolidge’s the day you—you went away. “They told me you had gone,” he resumed, after a pause, “though they could not or would not tell me where. Afterward young Coolidge said that I would find you at the ‘Washington.’ I haunted the hotel for a week, and I have searched the city over and over for you since. But, dearest,” he said, clasping the little hand closer, “I have found you now, and can you give me the one precious boon I crave—your priceless love?” He bent eagerly toward her, his noble, handsome face flushed and hopeful, for her attitude was one of sweet and modest confusion, and she had not even sought to withdraw the hand he was holding. “Will you, Brownie?” he pleaded, softly. She flashed one quick look at him from her beautiful eyes as he called her that, and he saw in their clear depths all that he wished or hoped. She loved him! Her soul answered to his, and clasping her close to his heart, he murmured: “You are mine, darling—I have won you by the mighty power of my silent, magnetic love, and you will be my wife?” She lifted her head, which had been resting against his bosom, quickly at these last words, and said, with drooping lashes and quivering lips: “Mr. Dredmond, you have taken me by storm.” “Yes, and I mean to hold you,” he interrupted, gayly, as he noticed her excessive embarrassment; then added, more earnestly: “Brownie, do you, can you love me?”