Mr. Fletcher liked to make Christie talk, for in the interest of the subject she forgot herself, and her chief charm for him was her earnestness. But just then the earnestness did not seem to suit him, and he said, rather sharply: “What hard-hearted creatures you women are sometimes! Now, I fancied you were one of those who wouldn’t leave a poor fellow to his fate, if his salvation lay in your hands.” “I can’t say what I should do in such a case; but it always seemed to me that a man should have energy enough to save himself, and not expect the ‘weaker vessel,’ as he calls her, to do it for him,” answered Christie, with a conscious look, for Mr. Fletcher’s face made her feel as if something was going to happen. Evidently anxious to know what she would do in aforesaid case, Mr. Fletcher decided to put one before her as speedily as possible, so he said, in a pensive tone, and with a wistful glance: “You looked very happy just now when I came up. I wish I could believe that my return had any thing to do with it.” Christie wished she could control her tell-tale color, but finding she could not, looked hard at the sea, and, ignoring his tender insinuation, said, with suspicious enthusiasm: “I was thinking of what Mrs. Saltonstall said this morning. She asked me if I would like to go to Paris with her for the winter. It has always been one of my dreams to go abroad, and I do hope I shall not be disappointed.” Christie’s blush seemed to be a truer answer than her words, and, leaning a little nearer, Mr. Fletcher said, in his most persuasive tone: “Will you go to Paris as my governess, instead of Charlotte’s?” Christie thought her reply was all ready; but when the moment came, she found it was not, and sat silent, feeling as if that “Yes” would promise far more than she could give. Mr. Fletcher had no doubt what the answer would be, and was in no haste to get it, for that was one of the moments that are so pleasant and so short-lived they should be enjoyed to the uttermost. He liked to watch her color come and go, to see the asters on her bosom tremble with the quickened beating of her heart, and tasted, in anticipation, the satisfaction of the moment when that pleasant voice of hers would falter out its grateful assent. Drawing yet nearer, he went on, still in the persuasive tone that would have been more lover-like if it had been less assured. “I think I am not mistaken in believing that you care for me a little. You must know how fond I am of you, how much I need you, and how glad I should be to give all I have if I might keep you always to make my hard life happy. May I, Christie?” “You would soon tire of me. I have no beauty, no accomplishments, no fortune,—nothing but my heart, and my hand to give the man I marry. Is that enough?” asked Christie, looking at him with eyes that betrayed the hunger of an empty heart longing to be fed with genuine food.