‘“But what will Annita say?” I thought while I was on the way. “She has never heard any man whisper a word of love. Perhaps she will be frightened. Perhaps she will be as much afraid of me as of my father.” ‘I returned home, and I was welcomed by these three on the stairs of the house. My father was reserved and undemonstrative, my mother was weeping when embracing me, and Annita looked very pale, as she reached out her hand to me. I took both her hands in mine, and looked into her pretty eyes, but she cast them down directly. There must have been something in my look which she had not seen before, something of a lover’s look, which caused her to cast her beautiful eyes down to the ground, while a slight blush tinged her cheeks. ‘The next day I said to Annita, “Come and let us go for a walk;” and we went together out into the park to her favourite place under a large oak, where there is a view over Lake Ladoga, which spreads out like an ocean. On previous occasions, when we had walked about together alone, she had always been full of fun, and asking questions, and like a child dragging me hither and thither. But this time she was silent and quiet. ‘“Annita,” I said, when we had seated ourselves under the oak, “can you remember twelve years ago?” ‘“Yes; I remember everything—my poor parents!” ‘“Can you remember when we came here—how frightened you were? how you clung to me?” ‘“Yes, I remember it distinctly. I remember the first night I would not sleep in the servant’s room, but that I cried so, and that I insisted on having my little bed moved into your room.” ‘“But can you remember what you once said, when we were walking about here together?” ‘“No; I don’t know what you refer to. I have no recollection of anything.” ‘“But I remember it very well myself.” ‘“What was it, then? Was it some very silly thing?” ‘“No, it was not silly; but listen: while you held my hand, and skipped along by my side, you suddenly said to me, ‘Do you know what I am going to be?’ ‘“‘No,’ I answered; ‘I don’t in the least know what.’ ‘“‘Very well,’ you said very earnestly, ‘I mean to be your wife. You and I shall be man and wife.’ ‘“‘Oh, of course,’ I said; ‘you shall be Madame Theodora.’” ‘“Yes; but I was a simple child then,” Annita said, “a child that played with dolls. I did not know what I was saying; besides that, my dolls were husband and wife, don’t you know.” ‘“No, you did not know what you said, that is certain enough; but now you are a grown-up young woman, Annita, you are no longer a child.” ‘“No, I am nearly twenty.” ‘“And sensible.” ‘“No, not particularly.” ‘“And pretty.” ‘“Am I?” ‘“Yes, you certainly are; yes, so pretty that I cannot any longer be your brother.” ‘“Are you angry with me?” ‘“No, I am not angry with you; but there is something I want to tell you.” ‘“What is it?” ‘“A secret.” ‘“A secret! It will be nice to have a secret. I haven’t any.” ‘“I am not so sure that it is always nice.”