“It is an inalienable right of every man to tell his love.” “At any rate, I beg your pardon for having spoken mine.” “I find forgiveness amazingly easy,” said she, laughing. Then, seriously, “Indeed, your scruples are over-nice. The sweetest music that can fall on the ear of a woman is, as Alice says, loving words. Why should we be denied it? What else have we to live for?” “But I owe it to you—” “You owe me nothing!” exclaimed she, hastily. “But I wish to tell you—” “Tell me nothing! I know what you wish to say, but you shall not say it,—not yet, at least.” He smiled. “No; I see you before me, hear your voice; I have known you, such as you are, for months. I wish to know no more, just now. Let me dream on; do not awaken me. Let me float on,” she continued, realistically clasping the gunwale of the Argo, “over rose-tipped waves, careless what shores lie beyond. Let me dream yet a little longer.” And rising from her seat, she dropped on one knee in front of him, and bringing her two hands together, placed them within his. “Not one word. I trust you; I am _satisfied_,” said she, with a voice low yet ringing, ringing with proud enthusiasm,—a voice full of strange thrills, vibrating, eloquent. This, her speaking attitude, and the impassioned faith that illumined her eyes, fired his breast with an indescribable glow of ecstasy. Pressing her hands between his and raising his eyes, he exclaimed with a fervor that was almost religious,— “Adorable Mary! I have dreamed dreams, I have seen visions, but none could compare with this!” The exaltation of his voice, the spiritual glory of his upturned eyes, the sudden burst of fervor, the overmastering force of his impetuous manhood, hurried Mary’s imagination to giddy heights. She could have fallen down and worshipped him. “Come,” said he, more gently; “take that seat and listen to me for a moment.” She made as though she would place two fingers on his lips. “No!” said he (placing his lips on the two fingers). “Since you wish it, I will leave unsaid what I purposed saying. It is a strange whim on your part, but an altogether charming one to me, since it gives me the right to believe that you value me for myself alone. I shall, therefore, respect this fancy of yours as long as you desire. But if I may not tell you who I am, I may at least say what I am not. I am not an adventurer. You toss your head; your faith is lovely, but you know I might have been one. No? Well, at any rate, I am not. I am, in fact, your equal in social position; so that, if you can spare a place for me in your heart, without knowing who I am, you will not have to expel me when you condescend to hear what I have to say.” “Do you know,” said Mary, with a merry twinkle in her eyes, “I believe you are just dying to tell me all about yourself?” “And you wild to have me do so.”