"Yes, I believe I have a right, the right that every man has when his whole happiness depends upon it, to ask you one question. You know every thing concerning me; you always have known; I meant that you should--I have taken the utmost care that you should. There is not a bit of my life that has not been as open to you as if--as if--. But I know nothing whatever concerning you." "What do you wish to know?" she faltered. "Seven years is a long time. Are you free? I mean, are you engaged to be married?" "No." "Thank God!" He dropped his head down between his hands and did not speak for a long time. And then with difficulty--for it was always hard to him to speak out--he told her, at least he somehow made her understand, how he had loved her. No light fancy of sentimental youth, captivated by every fresh face it sees, putting upon each one the coloring of his own imagination, and adorning not what is, but what itself creates; no sudden, selfish, sensuous passion, caring only to attain its object, irrespective of reason, right, or conscience; but the strong deep love of a just man, deliberately choosing one woman as the best woman out of all the world, and setting himself resolutely to win her. Battling for her sake with all hard fortune; keeping, for her sake, his heart pure from all the temptations of the world; never losing sight of her; watching over her so far as he could, consistently with the sense of honor (or masculine pride--which was it? but Hilary forgave it, any how) which made him resolutely compel himself to silence; holding her perfectly free, while he held himself bound. Bound by a faithfulness perfect as that of the knights of old--asking nothing, and yet giving all. Such was his love--this brave, plain spoken, single hearted Scotsman. Would that there were more such men and more such love in the world! Few women could have resisted it, certainly not Hilary, especially with a little secret of her own lying perdu at the bottom of her heart; that "sleeping angel" whence half her strength and courage had come; the noble, faithful, generous love of a good woman for a good man. But this secret Robert Lyon had evidently never guessed, or deemed himself wholly unworthy of such a possession. He took her hand at last, and held it firmly. "And now that you know all, do you think in time--I'll not hurry you--but in time, do you think I could make you love me?" She looked up in his face with her honest eyes. Smiling as they were, there was pathos in them; the sadness left by those long years of hidden suffering, now forever ended. "I have loved you all my life," said Hilary. CHAPTER XXVI.