There he paused, and Bertha with a slight cough, which was a trifle too casual and unembarrassed to be real, said, ‘Indeed, Mr. Protheroe?’ and kept her eyes upon the book. ‘They say a girl always knows,’ he went on, ‘and if that’s true you know already what I want to say.’ He paused, but if he expected any help from her in the way either of assent or denial, he was disappointed. He stooped a little lower and touched her hand with a gentle timidity, but she at once withdrew it. ‘You know I love you, Bertha? You know you’re dearer to me than all the whole wide world beside?’ Still Bertha said nothing, but the hand that turned the leaves of the book trembled perceptibly. ‘I’ve come to ask you if you’ll be my wife, dear! if you’ll let me make you my lifelong care and joy, my darling! You don’t guess how much I love you. You don’t know how much your answer means to me.’ The girl rose, and, carrying the book with her, walked to the kitchen window and looked out upon the garden, the river, and the fields, without seeing anything. She was evidently agitated, and did not find an answer easily. Lane followed her, and when for a moment she dared to look up at him she encountered a look so tender, anxious, and ardent that she lowered her eyes in quick confusion. He seized her hand, and for a brief instant she let it rest in his. ‘Speak to me,’ he murmured, caressingly and pleadingly. ‘Tell me.’ ‘I don’t understand you, Mr. Protheroe,’ the girl said pantingly. ‘Not understand me, dear? ‘he whispered; ‘I am asking you to be my wife.’ ‘I understand that,’ she answered, drawing herself away from him, and speaking with difficulty. ‘It is _you_ I don’t understand. You--yourself.’ ‘Tell me how, darling,’ he said softly. ‘You tell me,’ she said, lifting a pale and agitated face, ‘that I can’t guess how much my answer means to you. But you come here whistling and dancing, as you always come, as if you hadn’t a care upon your mind.’ ‘Don’t make that a reproach against me, dear,’ said he. ‘Why it was just the thought of you made me so happy.’ She looked up at him with an expression of doubt and pain, and as their eyes met he caught one of her hands in both his, and held it. ‘Dear Bertha!’ he said, with a sudden moisture in his eyes. ‘There is nobody so good. There is nobody so lovely.’ She drew away from him again, though some sort of electric influence seemed to come out of him, and draw her strongly to him. ‘I must wait,’ she said. ‘I--I don’t know you well enough. I don’t understand you. You are too light. You are too careless. I don’t know how far I can believe you.’ ‘Oh!’ he cried, ‘believe me altogether, dear. I love you with all my heart and soul!’ She moved to the middle of the room, and sheltered herself behind a table which stood there. ‘I hardly know whether you have a heart,’ she answered then. ‘You fancy you feel all you say,’ she added quickly. ‘You feel it for the minute.’