"Bashful?" she replied; "I like that, Master Frank. Why, you are all a most intolerable set of conceited mortals! No, it is not that:--it is, because the `lords of creation' think us beneath the notice of their superior minds."--And she tossed her little head proudly. "Well, then," I said, "your duty is to draw us out. Many men are diffident of speaking earnestly and showing their feelings, from the fear of being laughed at, or ridiculed, as solemn prigs and book-worms. Ladies should think of this, and encourage us." "Yet, some of you," she replied, undauntedly, "are not so reticent and retiring. There is Mr Mawley, for instance. He always talks to me about literature and art, and politics, too--although I do not care much about _them_--just as if I were a man like himself, and blessed with the same understanding!" "Oh," said I, "the curate is usually fond of hearing himself talk!" "You need not abuse poor Mr Mawley," she said, laughing. "`Those who live in glass houses,' you know, `should not throw stones!' _You_ are, also, not averse to airing your opinions, Master Frank! But, don't get angry--" she continued, as I slightly withdrew from her side, in momentary pique at hearing the curate's part taken.--"I like to hear you talk of such things, Frank, far better than if you only spoke to me of commonplace matters, as most gentlemen do, or dosed me with flattery, which I detest!" "I do not talk so to _everybody_,"--I said, meaningly, coming closer to her again and taking one of her hands captive.--"Do you know why I like to let you know my deeper thoughts, Min, and learn more of my inner nature than others?" I whispered, bending over her. "N-o!" she said, faintly, turning away her head. "Because, Min--" I said, hesitatingly, almost abashed at my own rashness--"because, I--I--love you!" She said nothing in reply; but she bent her head lower, so that I could not see her face; and, the little hand I held, trembled in my grasp. At this point, too, our conversation was interrupted by the vicar asking Bessie Dasher and her sister to start the "Canadian Boat Song," in which we all joined in harmony:--the music, borne far and wide over the expanse of resonant water, sounding like some fairy chorus of yellow- haired sea-maidens, singing fathoms deep below in ocean caves! When I was seeing her home, however, after we had all arrived at the vicarage, and separated severally with a cheerful "good-night," I was able to prosecute my wooing. We were walking along side by side--she declined taking my arm, being shy, and quite unlike the frank, straightforward Min whom I had before known. I was not downhearted at this change, though:--I really felt shy, and nervous, myself! As soon as we had got a safe distance from the others, and there was no fear of being overheard in the stillness of the night, I again spoke to her. "Min," I said, "do you remember what I said to you just now when we were on the river?"