“_Have_ you, Mr. St. Clair!” Lucy stammered out in consternation. She understood him vaguely, and yet she did not understand him. _Have_ him! not give to him, but take from him. He had put it skillfully, without, however, being aware that he was doing so, excitement taking the place of calculation, as it often does. He held out his hands for hers, he looked at her with eyes full of entreaty, beseeching, imploring. There was nothing fictitious in their eloquence. He meant as sincerely as ever lover meant, and the yes or no was to him, as in the case of the most impassioned wooer, like life or death. “Yes,” he said, “have me! I am not much of a man, but with you I should be another creature. You would give me what I have always wanted, an inspiration, a motive. Since the first time I saw you, my happiness has been in your hands; for what else do you think I have been staying here? I have not done all I might have done, but, Lucy, if love had not held me, do you think I am good for nothing but to be tutor to a child? I have served for love, like Jacob, for you.” Lucy gave a low cry at this. She put her hands, not into his, but together, wringing them with sudden pain. “Oh,” she said, “why did not you tell me before? Oh, Mr. St. Clair, why did I not know?” “Do you think I grudge it?” he said, “not if it had been as long as Jacob’s. Do you think I regret having done this for you? not if it had been a life-time; but Lucy, you are too good to keep me in suspense, you will give me my reward at the end?” And this time he took her clasped hands into his, drawing her to him. Lucy’s courage had failed for a moment. Confusion and trouble and distress had taken away all the strength from her. There was a mist over her eyes, and her voice seemed to die away in her throat; but at his touch her girlish shyness came to her aid. A flush of shrinking and shame came over her. She drew away from him with an instinctive recoil. “Mr. St. Clair, I don’t know what you want from me. I am very grateful to you about Jock. I thought it was a great favor; but I did not know--oh, I am very sorry, very sorry that you should have done anything that was not good enough for me.” “I am not sorry,” he said; his heart began to sink, but he looked more lover-like, more eager than ever. “You do not know how sweet it is to serve those one loves. Do you remember what Browning says about Dante’s angel and Raphael’s sonnet?” He was a man of culture himself, and he did not reflect that Dante, and Raphael, and Browning were all alike out of Lucy’s way, who stared at him with growing horror, as he pleaded, feeling that he must be citing spectators of his sacrifices for her, who would blame her, and say she used him badly. “This is my sonnet and my picture,” he added; “‘Once, and only once, and for one only.’ Lucy! believe me, I should never have said anything about it, save to prove my dear love.”