“Thank you,” she said, and her voice, sweet at all times, smote upon his ears like a melody too subtle for description. “Yes, it is pretty; I--I often come here. Were you going to the house? My father is in, I know. I will come, too.” “I was going to the house,” he said, and he spoke slowly, as if he were keeping a strict guard upon his words, his very tone. “But it was not to see Mr. Vanley; I wanted to see you.” “To see me!” she echoed, and, his gaze fixed on the ground, he did not see the sudden expansion of her eyes or the swift rush of blood to her face. “To see me!” and her hand stole shyly to her heart for an instant. “Yes,” he said. “You are surprised that I, who am almost a stranger, should wish to speak to you alone; but one is not always the master of his own actions, not always a free agent. Miss Vanley, will you promise to listen patiently to me, however much I shall try your patience, your sweet gentleness? Will you not sit down?” She sank on to the grass, and looked up, and yet not at him, for her eyes were heavy with a strange shyness, and it seemed to her that he must hear her heart beat, it echoed with such full joy every word of his musical voice. “I shall try your patience,” he said, with a suppressed sigh, still looking on the ground. “I came this morning to stand here before you as a suitor”--her face grew pale and her lips quivered, and a wild thrill of joy ran through her--“as a humble suitor, as a man pleading for something dearer even than life!” His voice broke for a moment. “Yes, dearer than life. You see I find my task difficult; even now, now that I have ventured to begin, I would draw back if I could----” She glanced up at him, half-amazedly, half-sorrowfully. “For I realize how great, how precious a treasure it is that I am striving for. But I am not free--a stronger will than mine impels me. Miss Vanley forget if you can--I know it will be hard--that I am almost a stranger, that you know nothing of me, and--listen to me. Do not send me away till I have told you what I came to tell you, what I would have kept from you, even now, if I had not given my word.” Again the look swept over her face. “You will not wonder that a man should love you. I don’t think it is possible for any one to see you, to hear you, to be in your presence for one short day without loving you.” No words can describe the infinite tenderness and reverence, and yet the infinite sadness of his voice. At that moment, even so soon, she could have stretched out her arms to him. “No!” he continued. “No one could help loving you, and no one loves you more dearly, more truly, more passionately. That I can say with perfect truth; and I beg, I implore you to believe it! There are better, wiser men, but none in all the world who will more greatly prize the treasure of your love, if you will give it him.”