I looked forward to the ceremony with many misgivings, having no doubt that my aunt would misconduct herself. When Monday morning came we all rose very early, and supplied, at the breakfast table, such an assemblage of dolorous faces, that more dejection could not have been expressed, had we been going to escort some favourite relation to the gallows. My uncle proposed that Theresa and I should walk to the church in advance of him and his wife, lest, should we go in a body, the attention of the people might be drawn, and a procession follow us to the altar. “Anything to keep this matter secret,” said he. So Theresa and I started alone. It was a bright, fresh morning, so gay and sunny that all depression was out of the question. “I know it is proper to look wretched on these occasions,” said I. “But what is a man to do if he _can’t_ cry?” “I don’t see any reason to be dull,” answered Theresa, “though aunt’s face makes cheerfulness rather difficult.” “I wonder how we should feel if _we_ were going to be married?” said I. She did not answer. “Would you like to be going to be married?” “Would you?” “If you were the bride.” She turned her head away and grew so nervous, that her step quickened, and I had to catch her hand to detain her. “Theresa,” I exclaimed, whilst my heart beat violently, “I had no intention of frightening you with a declaration when we left the house. But--but, dearest--haven’t you foreseen that--that I should speak to you before long--that--that I should tell you----Oh Theresa!” I gasped, “I am so agitated I can scarcely speak. My impulse has taken my breath away. My darling, I am in love with you. I fell in love with you at Thistlewood, and I am able to think of nothing--of nobody but you.... Oh, tell me something.” “It is quite impossible that you could have learnt to love me in this short time,” she answered in a low voice. “How can it be impossible when I _do_ love you? I know what you are thinking of--Conny. Don’t, pray don’t. If it were in my power to bare my heart, you’d know then that I loved you. No, no. I have been weak--all men are. I may have flirted--I may have played the fool, but all _that_ is over, a deep and serious play is begun. Do you believe me?” She looked at me steadily, let her eyes fall, and answered, “Yes, I believe you are in earnest.” I glanced around to see that nobody was in sight and, Eugenio, I kissed her. “Will you marry me?” I asked her. She was so long silent that I feared my kiss had made her indignant. “Charlie,” she answered presently, “I wish you had taken a longer time to consider your feelings before you spoke to me. Have I any right to depend upon your love when I see how quickly you can forget the old and take to the new?” “Ah!” I exclaimed, bitterly; “I always feared that Conny would come between us.” “It is not Conny, but your own heart. Can you be faithful?” “Try me.” “If I were to tell you I love you, would you abandon me for the first pretty girl you met?”