“Florence--dear, dearest Florence, on my honor I will never pain you in this manner again. I was wrong--I confess it. I ought to have admired and imitated your generosity. I tell you, love, these sad years have terribly altered me from the Frank you knew. I am harsh in my judgments, as you truly said, and inclined to look always at the worst side of human nature. But your gentle smile will exorcise all the demons, and restore me to my better self. Speak, Florence! Shall we steadily put the bygone years behind us, and look forward--always forward?” She no longer withheld herself from his embrace--she no longer hesitated to ask herself why he had not said this sooner. His eyes were looking into hers. She knew even without words or promises that she had his love; and if her tears began to flow fast they were not sorrowful ones. “You will be mine at once, Florence?” he said, as they again walked on together. “As quietly and privately as you please, but let it be at once.” “You are too exacting,” she murmured, startled by the suddenness of the proposal. “I cannot consent to this.” “What! Do you deny my first request?” he jealously demanded. “Is it not an unreasonable one?” she queried, in her turn. “I have Aunt Margaret to consider; while I should wish you to have time to ask yourself what the world will say to your union with poor me.” “If I had not determined beforehand to let the world and the world’s opinions have no part in my plans, I had not been here, Florence,” he answered, with a gravity which contrasted strongly with the playfulness of her own manner. “I am no waverer to be blown hither and thither by the whispers of indifferent people; and let those who think to meddle with my private concerns look to it! I brook no interference from any one!” The sunshine died out of Florence’s face, and all the old, anxious conjectures began to come back. Could she be happy as Frank Dormer’s wife if she had to learn that he had for her sake broken the ties that should have bound him to another? She was not sorry that Walter and Fred came in search of them, and prevented any further conversation. But at the door Mr. Aylwinne sent the boys in and held her back. “Tell me, Florence,” he whispered, “is it to be as I wish?” “Ah, no!” she faltered. “Give me time--a little time!” “For what?” he demanded, with the earnest gravity that would have a reply. “For what? Is it for appearance sake? Or because you are not sure that your heart is in my keeping?” “If you knew----” Florence began, almost indignant at the implied doubt, then paused. “But no; I will tell you nothing more. You ought to know that I am incapable of playing the coquette.”