The look she did give him was not discouraging: it was not likely to be, with her feelings. Fears as to the past, doubts for the future, present anxieties, weakness, uncertainty, were all swept away in the rush of gratified feelings and tender satisfaction. He loved her; he, the good, the wise, the brave, the courageous man; he who could deliberately and unflinchingly face danger, and confront death, not only in the tumult of excitement, amid the plaudits of the multitude, but also in the chamber of sickness, by the bed of infection, in the stillness of the hospital, where none but true courage or dull apathy could remain unmoved by fear; he was now waiting, in trembling suspense, for her decision, and deprecating her displeasure with a humility he would hardly have shown to a monarch. She saw the immense power which she had over him, and she saw it with delight. Not the delight of gratified vanity, the satisfaction of the coquette who rejoices in giving pain; but the pleasure of a loving and grateful heart, exulting in the discovery that it has the means to confer happiness where it has felt deep obligation, and the gentle triumph of maiden modesty, at last assured that it has not bestowed affection unauthorized and unwished for. She owed him her life, and her sister’s also; and she had that in her power which he said would repay the benefit. He had placed his happiness with his heart at her disposal, and she could reward the generous gift by a single word. With an air of the most betwitching modesty and confidence, she raised her head, she held out both her hands, and said, “Captain Hepburn, you have made me happy by the assurance of your love;” then fearing she had said too much, she would have drawn back, but she was not allowed; his thanks and raptures were too warm, too energetic to be interrupted. “I could not leave England,” he said, presently, “without explaining my mind, small as my hope of such an answer was; I trusted, that perhaps you would think of me, let me try to deserve you, let me endeavor to win your love. I feared that silence and absence might lead to misconstructions, might make you doubt my sincerity, blame and mistrust me. Believe me, I dared not flatter myself that you felt more than a friendly interest; what have I to tempt you, Hilary, that you should condescend to love me? It is only your own goodness, your sweetness, which inclines you to listen to me favorably. If you knew me better, I fear you would value me less.” She shook her head a little, and with downcast eyes, and lips just parting into a smile, she said, “I do not _love_ all those whom I have known much longer.” He knew it well; for he knew he had a rival, and she might almost have seen that he did so, had she been able to look at him. “Hilary, I know you will be true to me, while I am at sea; I feel that I may trust you once and forever; and when I return, you will become my wife.”