"But indeed I can't," exclaims Miss Massereene, retreating a step or two, and glancing at him furtively from under her long lashes. "At least"--relenting a little, as she sees his face change and whiten at her words--"not _yet_. It is all so sudden, so unexpected; and you forget I am not accustomed to this sort of thing. Now, the curates"--with an irrepressible smile--"never went on like this: they always behaved modestly and with such propriety." "'The curates!' What do they know about it?" returns this young man, most unjustly. "Do you suppose I love you like a curate?" "And yet, when all is told, I suppose a curate is a man," says Molly, uncertainly, as one doubtful of the truth of her assertion, "and a well-behaved one, too. Now, you are quite different; and you have known me such a little time." "What has time to do with it? The beginning and the ending of the whole matter is this: I love you!" He is holding her hands and gazing down into her face with all his heart in his eyes, waiting for her next words,--may they not decide his fate?--while she is feeling nothing in the world but a mad desire to break into laughter,--a desire that arises half from nervousness, half from an irrepressible longing to destroy the solemnity of the scene. "A pinch for stale news," says she, at last, with a frivolity most unworthy of the occasion, but in the softest, merriest whisper. They are both young. The laugh is contagious. After a moment's struggle with his dignity, he echoes it. "You can jest," says he: "surely that is a good sign. If you were going to refuse me you would not laugh. Beloved,"--taking her into his fond arms again,--"say one little word to make me happy." "Will any little word do? Long ago, in the dark ages when I was a child, I remember being asked a riddle _a propos_ of short words. I will ask it to you now. What three letters contain everything in the world? Guess." "No need to guess: I know. YES would contain everything in the world for me." "You are wrong, then. It is ALL,--all. Absurd, isn't it? I must have been very young when I thought that clever. But to return: would _that_ little word do you?" "Say 'Yes,' Molly." "And if I say 'No,' what then? Will you throw yourself into this small river? Or perhaps hang yourself to the nearest tree? Or, worse still, refuse to speak to me ever again? Or 'go to skin and bone,' as my old nurse used to say I would when I refused a fifth meal in the day? Tell me which?" "A greater evil than all those would befall me: I should live with no nearer companion than a perpetual regret. But"--with a shudder--"I will not believe myself so doomed. Molly, say what I ask you." "Well, 'Yes,' then, since you will have it so. Though why you are so bent on your own destruction puzzles me. Do you know you never spoke to me all this evening? I don't believe you love me as well as you say."