“I am very glad you are come, my dear Martin,” she said, softly.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH.

A LONG HALF-HOUR.

I dared not dally another moment.  I must take my plunge at once into the icy-cold waters.

“I have something of importance to say to you, dear cousin,” I began.

“So have I,” she said, gayly; “a thousand things, as I told you this morning, sir, though you are so late in coming to hear them.  See, I have been making a list of a few commissions for you to do in London.  They are such as I can trust to you; but for plate, and glass, and china, I think we had better wait till we return from Switzerland.  We are sure to come home through London.”

Her eyes ran over a paper she was holding in her hand; while I stood opposite to her, not knowing what to do with myself, and feeling the guiltiest wretch alive.

“Cannot you find a seat?” she asked, after a short silence.

I sat down on the broad window-sill instead of on the chair close to hers.  She looked up at that, and fixed her eyes upon me keenly.  I had often quailed before Julia’s gaze as a boy, but never as I did now.

“Well! what is it?” she asked, curtly.  The incisiveness of her tone brought life into me, as a probe sometimes brings a patient out of stupor.

“Julia,” I said, “are you quite sure you love me enough to be happy with me as my wife?”

She opened her eyes very widely, and arched her eyebrows at the question, laughed a little, and then drooped her head over the work in her hands.

“Think of it well, Julia,” I urged.

“I know you well enough to be as happy as the day is long with you,” she replied, the color rushing to her face.  “I have no vocation for a single life, such as so many of the girls here have to make up their minds to.  I should hate to have nothing to do and nobody to care for.  Every night and morning I thank God that he has ordained another life for me.  He knows how I love you, Martin.”

“What was I to say to this?  How was I to set my foot down to crush this blooming happiness of hers?

“You do not often look as if you loved me,” I said at last.

“That is only my way,” she answered.  “I can’t be soft and purring like many women.  I don’t care to be always kissing and hanging about anybody.  But if you are afraid I don’t love you enough—­well!  I will ask you what you think in ten years’ time.”

“What would you say if I told you I had once loved a girl better than I do you?” I asked.

“That’s not true,” she said, sharply.  “I’ve known you all your life, and you could not hide such a thing from your mother and me.  You are only laughing at me, Martin.”

“Heaven knows I’m not laughing,” I answered, solemnly; “it’s no laughing matter.  Julia, there is a girl I love better than you, even now.”

The color and the smile faded out of her face, leaving it ashy pale.  Her lips parted once or twice, but her voice failed her.  Then she broke out into a short, hysterical laugh.