Here Diamond, judging from the earnestness of Tom’s tone that his thoughts were otherwhere, and deeming the opportunity a favourable one to steal a little breathing-time, gradually slackened his slow pace into a still slower one, till at last he came to a dead stand. Admonished by a crack of the whip half a yard above his head that Tom was still wide awake, he put on a tremendous spurt—for him—which, as they were going down hill at the time, was not difficult. But no sooner had they reached a level bit of road again than the spurt toned itself down to the customary slow trot, with, however, an extra whisk of the tail now and then which seemed to imply: “Mark well what a fiery steed I could be if I only chose to exert myself.” “All this but brings me to one point,” said Tom: “that I have never yet told you that I loved you, that I have never yet asked you to become my wife. To-day, then—here this very moment, I tell you that I do love you as truly and sincerely as it is possible for man to love; and here I ask you to become my wife. Get along, Diamond, do, sir.” “Dearest, you are not blind,” he went on. “You must have seen, you must have known, for a long time past, that my heart—my love—were wholly yours; and that I might one day win you for my own has been a hope, a blissful dream, that has haunted me and charmed my life for longer than I can tell. I ought, perhaps, to have spoken of this to you before, but there were certain reasons for my silence which it is not necessary to dilate upon now, but which, if you care to hear them, I will explain to you another time. Here, then, I ask you whether you feel as if you could ever learn to love me, whether you can ever care for me enough to become my wife. Speak to me, darling—whisper the one little word I burn to hear. Lift your eyes to mine, and let me read there that which will make me happy for life.” Except these two, there was no human being visible. They were alone with the trees, and the birds, and the sailing clouds. There was no one to overhear them save that sly old Diamond, and he pretended to be not listening a bit. For the second time he came to a stand-still, and this time his artfulness remained unreproved and unnoticed. Jane trembled a little, but her eyes were still cast down. Tom tried to see into their depths but could not. “You promised papa that you would not take me from him without his consent,” she said, speaking in little more than a whisper. “That consent you will never obtain.” “That consent I shall obtain if you will only give me yours first.” He spoke firmly and unhesitatingly. Jane could hardly believe her ears. She looked up at him in sheer surprise. For the first time their eyes met. “You don’t know papa as well as I do—how obstinate he is—how full of whims and crotchets. No—no; I feel sure that he will never consent.”