"I am very suspicious," he says, half apologetically, "but you have seen so little of the world, you have led such a nun's life! how can you answer for it that hereafter out in the world you may not meet some one more to your liking? You are a dear little, kindly, tender-hearted sort, and you do not tell me so, but you do not like me _much_, Nancy! Indeed, dear, I could far better do without you now, than see you by-and-by wishing me away and yet be unable to rid you of me." "People can help falling in love," say I, with matter-of-fact common-sense. "If I belonged to you, of course I should never think of any one else in that way." "Are you sure--?" "I wish that you would not ask me any more questions," say I, interrupting him with a pout. "I am quite sure of every thing you can possibly think of." "I will only ask _one_ more--are you quite sure that it is not for your brothers' and sisters' sakes--not your own--that you are doing this? Do you remember" (with a smile half playful, half sad) "what you told me about your views of marriage on that first day when I found you in the kitchen-garden?" "I hope to Heaven that you did not think I was _hinting_," say I, growing crimson; "it certainly sounded very like it, but I really and truly was not. I was thinking of a _young_ man! I assure you" (speaking with great earnestness) "that I had as much idea of marrying you as of marrying _father_!" Looking back with mature reflection at this speech, I think that it may be safely reckoned among my unlucky things. "No," he says, wincing a little, a very little. "I know you had not; but--you have not answered my question." For a moment I look down irresolute, then, through some fixed belief in him, I look up and tell him the plain, bare truth. "I _did_ think that it would be a nice thing for the boys," I say, "and so it will, there is no doubt; you will be as good as a fa--, as a brother to them; but--I like you _myself_ besides, you may believe it or not as you please, but it is quite, _quite_, QUITE true." As I speak, the tears steal into my eyes. "And _I_ like _you_!" he answers very simply, and so saying, stoops, and with a sort of diffidence, kisses me. * * * * * "Well, how did it go off?" cries Bobby, curiously, when I next rejoin my compeers. "Did you laugh?" "_Laugh!_" I echo, with lofty anger, "I do not know what you mean! I never felt in the least inclined." Then seeing my brethren look rather aghast at this sudden change in the wind, I add gayly: "Bobby, you must never again breathe a word about Sir Roger's having been at school with father; let it be supposed that he did without education." CHAPTER VIII.