He told her that she had been very cruel, and had made him very unhappy; and Catherine felt acutely the difficulty of her destiny, which forced her to give pain in such opposite quarters. But she wished that, instead of reproaches, however tender, he would give her help; he was certainly wise enough, and clever enough, to invent some issue from their troubles. She expressed this belief, and Morris received the assurance as if he thought it natural; but he interrogated, at first—as was natural too—rather than committed himself to marking out a course. “You should not have made me wait so long,” he said. “I don’t know how I have been living; every hour seemed like years. You should have decided sooner.” “Decided?” Catherine asked. “Decided whether you would keep me or give me up.” “Oh, Morris,” she cried, with a long tender murmur, “I never thought of giving you up!” “What, then, were you waiting for?” The young man was ardently logical. “I thought my father might—might—” and she hesitated. “Might see how unhappy you were?” “Oh no! But that he might look at it differently.” “And now you have sent for me to tell me that at last he does so. Is that it?” This hypothetical optimism gave the poor girl a pang. “No, Morris,” she said solemnly, “he looks at it still in the same way.” “Then why have you sent for me?” “Because I wanted to see you!” cried Catherine piteously. “That’s an excellent reason, surely. But did you want to look at me only? Have you nothing to tell me?” His beautiful persuasive eyes were fixed upon her face, and she wondered what answer would be noble enough to make to such a gaze as that. For a moment her own eyes took it in, and then—“I _did_ want to look at you!” she said gently. But after this speech, most inconsistently, she hid her face. Morris watched her for a moment, attentively. “Will you marry me to-morrow?” he asked suddenly. “To-morrow?” “Next week, then. Any time within a month.” “Isn’t it better to wait?” said Catherine. “To wait for what?” She hardly knew for what; but this tremendous leap alarmed her. “Till we have thought about it a little more.” He shook his head, sadly and reproachfully. “I thought you had been thinking about it these three weeks. Do you want to turn it over in your mind for five years? You have given me more than time enough. My poor girl,” he added in a moment, “you are not sincere!” Catherine coloured from brow to chin, and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, how can you say that?” she murmured. “Why, you must take me or leave me,” said Morris, very reasonably. “You can’t please your father and me both; you must choose between us.” “I have chosen you!” she said passionately. “Then marry me next week.” She stood gazing at him. “Isn’t there any other way?” “None that I know of for arriving at the same result. If there is, I should be happy to hear of it.”