Poor Eustace grew pale and paler yet, till his handsome countenance became positively ghastly.  It is wonderful how frightened young men are the first time that they propose.  It wears off afterwards—­with practice one gets accustomed to anything.

“Miss Smithers—­Augusta,” he gasped, “I want to say something to you!” and he stopped dead.

“Yes, Mr. Meeson,” she answered cheerfully, “what is it?”

“I want to tell you”—­and again he hesitated.

“What you are going to do about the will?” suggested Augusta.

“No—­no; nothing about the will—­please don’t laugh at me and put me off!”

She looked up innocently—­as much as to say that she never dreamed of doing either of these things.  She had a lovely face, and the glance of the grey eyes quite broke down the barrier of his fears.

“Oh, Augusta, Augusta,” he said, “don’t you understand?  I love you!  I love you!  No woman was ever loved before as I love you.  I fell in love with you the very first time I saw you in the office at Meeson’s, when I had the row with my uncle about you; and ever since then I have got deeper and deeper in love with you.  When I thought that you were drowned it nearly broke my heart, and often and often I wished that I were dead, too!”

It was Augusta’s turn to be disturbed now, for, though a lady’s composure will stand her in good stead up to the very verge of an affair of this sort, it generally breaks down in medias res.  Anyhow, she certainly dropped her eyes and colored to her hair, while her breast began to heave tumultuously.

“Do you know, Mr. Meeson,” she said at last, without daring to look at his imploring face, “that this is only the fourth time that we have seen each other, including yesterday.”

“Yes, I know,” he said; “but don’t refuse me on that, account; you can see me as often as you like”—­(this was generous of Master Eustace)—­“and really I know you better than you think.  I should think that I have read each of your books twenty times.”

This was a happy stroke, for, however free from vanity a person may be, it is not in the nature of a young woman to hear that somebody has read her book twenty times without being pleased.

“I am not my books,” said Augusta.

“No; but your books are part of you,” he answered, “and I have learnt more about your real self through them than I should have done if I had seen you a hundred times instead of four.”

Augusta slowly raised her grey eyes till they met his own, and looked at him as though she were searching out his soul, and the memory of that long, sweet look is with him yet.

He said no more, nor had she any words; but somehow nearer and nearer they drew one to the other, till his arms were around her, and his lips were pressed upon her lips.  Happy man and happy girl! they will live to find that life has joys (for those who are good and are well off) but that it has no joys so holy and so complete as that which they were now experiencing—­the first kiss of true and honest love.