He faltered, but he kept on, not looking at me, “I see you remember,” he said, with his voice shaking like a flame in a draught of air. “She has no prospect but to go out as a governess, and I cannot see her do that. I have asked her to--to--share--our home. I have asked her to--to be your--best friend; that is, I mean, I have asked her to marry me, Mary. There! You must have seen that I have been disturbed of late. I am very glad there is no longer this secret between my little girl and me.” And with that he kissed me quite suddenly and trembling, and went off again to the mantel-shelf, and stared up at Peter and John by the Beautiful gate. For my part I sat quite still, as if the lightning had struck me. What ought I to do? I did not realise at first what had happened. I was struck dumb. I knew that I ought to do or say something, and I could not tell what. My lips stuck together--I could not now even open my mouth; and there he stood waiting. I suppose if I had possessed my wits at that moment I would have gone and kissed him or something. Even, I suppose, if I had stormed at him it would have been less idiotic--but I could say nothing; I was bewildered. I sat staring into the air with my mouth open, over my blue print. At last he made an impatient movement, and I think said something to me, which roused me out of my stupefaction. Then--I do not know what impulse it was that moved me--I asked all at once, frightened, feeling I ought to say something, “What is her name, papa?” “Mary Martindale,” he said. CHAPTER II