“I would do anything to make my father happy,” she said. “And now—he’s in trouble—money-trouble. Of course I know that if I married you, I could help him. I’ve tried to bring myself to do it. To-day I said, ‘I will!’ But then, there is your side to be thought of.” “My side, Miss Sylvia?” “I have to be honest with you. I can’t pretend to be what I am not, or to feel what I don’t feel. If I were to marry you, I should try to do my duty as a wife; I should do everything in my power, honestly and sincerely. But I don’t love you, and I don’t see how I ever could love you.” “But—Miss Sylvia—” he exclaimed, hardly able to speak for his agitation. “You mean that you would marry me?” “I didn’t know if you would want to marry me—when I had told you that.” He was leaning forward, clenching and unclenching his hands nervously. “I wouldn’t mind—really!” he said. “Even if you knew—” she began. “Miss Sylvia,” he cried, “I love you! Don’t you understand how I love you?” “Yes, but—if I couldn’t—if I didn’t love you?” “I would take what you could give me! I love you so much, nothing would matter. I believe that you would come to love me! If you would only give me a chance, Miss Sylvia—” “But suppose!” she protested. “Suppose you found that I never did! Suppose—” But he was in no mood for troublesome suppositions. Any way would do, he said. He began stammering out his happiness, he fell upon his knees before her and caught her hand, and sought to kiss it. At first she made a move to withdraw it; but then, with an inward effort, she let him have it, and sat staring before her, a mantle of scarlet stealing over her throat and cheeks and forehead. His hands were hot and moist, and quite horrible to her. Once she looked at him, and an image of him was stamped upon her mind indelibly. It was an image quite different from his ordinary rigid and sober mask; it was the face of the man who had always got everything he wanted. Sylvia did not formulate to herself just what it was that frightened her so—except for one phrase. She said it seemed to her that he licked his lips! He could hardly believe that the long siege was ended, that the guerdon of victory was his. She had to tell him several times that she would marry him—that she was serious about it—that would give him her word and would not take it back. And then she had to prove it to him. He was not content to clasp her hand, but sought to embrace her; and when she found that she could not stand it, she had to plead that it was not the Southern custom. “You must give me a little time to get used to the idea. I only made up my mind to-day.” “But you will change your mind!” he exclaimed. “No, no, I won’t do that. That would be wicked of me. I’ve decided what is right, and I mean to do it. But you must be patient with me at the beginning.” “When will you marry me?” he asked—evidently none too confident in her resolution. “I don’t know. It ought to be soon. I must talk with my parents about it.”