few girls so particular.  The more I entertained the idea, the more I liked it, so I resolved to speak.  I fancied that she was a little cool in her manner:  possibly she thought I ought not have jested on such a subject, but I would make it all right now.  I was sitting on a stone a little lower than she.  I leaned forward and placed my arm on the rock and round her—­just near enough to keep her there, you know.  Then I spoke:  “I want to beg your pardon, Miss Blanche.  You are offended, but I did not mean to annoy you:  I esteem you too highly for that.”

“I am not at all offended, not at all,” she said heartily, at the same time trying to rise, but as I was leaning on her dress she could not.  “I must beg you to move:  I am going home,” she added, looking round:  then seeing where my arm was, her tone became slightly angry:  “Will you allow me to rise?”

“Not until you listen to me.  Do not be displeased when I tell you the truth.  I was jesting, or at least did not think what I was asking, a moment ago, but now I am in real earnest.  I want you to marry me—­truly I do.  I love you, and am willing to do everything you can desire.  See, I will kneel if you like devotion;” and I fell on my knees before her, catching her little white hands and kissing them.  “Won’t you love me?” I felt as I looked into her sweet face that I could do anything in the world for her.

“A little less devotion and more respect would suit me better, Mr. Highrank.  Will you stop this farce and release my dress?  I shall certainly be offended if you do not rise instantly.”

“I will obey you if you will give me one kind word.”

“I have none for you,” she said frigidly.

“You think I have been too hasty—­that I am not really in love with you; but I am, I assure you.  I fall, in love very quickly—­indeed I do.  I have often been in love with a girl the first time I saw her, and I have known you ever so long.  Won’t you believe me, Blanche?”

“I believe you are treating me in a most ungentlemanly manner in keeping me here when I don’t wish to stay.”

“I can’t let you go,” I said as I rose, but standing so that she could not pass, “till you are convinced that I love you, for I do, and shall always.  Surely I have a right to an answer.”

“I thought you were good-natured”—­now she spoke reproachfully—­“and you are teasing me in the most disagreeable way.  Please let me pass.”

“Do you think me so base as to tease you on such a subject?  What shall I do to persuade you that I am sincere.”

“Let me go home.”

“May I go with you?”

“I would rather you did not come, please.”

“Why are you so unkind?” I asked, taking her hand.  “Tell me you love me, and let us be happy.”

“But I don’t love you,” she said, trying to withdraw her hand, and the tears coming into her eyes.  “I don’t love you, and I want to go home.”  She turned from me to hide her face, looking about at the same time for some way of escape.