“The book is not particularly interesting,” Miss Nowell answered, laughing.  “I’ll go and tell my uncle you are here.  He is taking an afternoon nap; but I know he’ll be pleased to see you.”

“Don’t tell him just yet,” said Mr. Fenton, detaining her.  “I have something to say to you this afternoon,—­something that it is wiser to say at once, perhaps, though I have been willing enough to put off the hour of saying it, as a man may well be when all his future life depends upon the issue of a few words.  I think you must know what I mean, Miss Nowell.  Marian, I think you can guess what is coming.  I told you last night how sweet Lidford had been to me.”

“Yes,” she said, with a bright inquiring look in her eyes.  “But what have I to do with that?”

“Everything.  It is you who have made the little country village my paradise.  O Marian, tell me that it has not been a fool’s paradise!  My darling, I love you with all my heart and soul, with an honest man’s first and only love.  Promise that you will be my wife.”

He took the hand that lay loosely on her lap, and pressed it in both his own.  She withdrew it gently, and sat looking at him with a face that had grown suddenly pale.

“You do not know what you are asking,” she said; “you cannot know.  Captain Sedgewick is not my uncle.  He does not even know who my parents were.  I am the most obscure creature in the world.”

“Not one degree less dear to me because of that, Marian; only the dearer.  Tell me, my darling, is there any hope for me?”

“I never thought——­” she faltered; “I had no idea——­”

“That to know you was to love you.  My life and soul, I have loved you from the hour I first saw you in Lidford church.  I was a doomed man from that moment, Marian.  O my dearest, trust me, and it shall go hard if I do not make your future life a happy one.  Granted that I am ten years—­more than ten years—­your senior, that is a difference on the right side.  I have fought the battle of life, and have conquered, and am strong enough to protect and shelter the woman I love.  Come, Marian, I am waiting for a word of hope.”

“And do you really love me?” she asked wonderingly.  “It seems so strange after so short a time.”

“I loved you from that first evening in the church, my dear.”

“I am very grateful to you,” she said slowly, “and I am proud—­I have reason to be proud—­of your preference.  But I have known you such a short time.  I am afraid to give you any promise.”

“Afraid of me, or of yourself, Marian?”

“Of myself.”

“In what way?”

“I am only a foolish frivolous girl.  You offer me so much more than I deserve in offering me your love like this.  I scarcely know if I have a heart to give to any one.  I know that I have never loved anybody except my one friend and protector my dear adopted uncle.”

“But you do not say that you cannot love me, Marian.  Perhaps I have spoken too soon, after all.  It seems to me that I have known you for a lifetime; but that is only a lover’s fancy.  I seem almost a stranger to you, perhaps?”