‘It cannot be that you love me, or you would not joke now.’

‘Perhaps not, indeed,’ she said.  It seemed as though she were resolved not to yield an inch in her own humour.  And then again they walked on.

‘Patty,’ he said once more, ’I shall get an answer from you tonight,—­this evening; now, during this walk, or I shall return tomorrow, and never revisit this spot again.’

‘Oh, Captain Broughton, how should we ever manage to live without you?’

‘Very well,’ he said; ’up to the end of this walk I can bear it all;—­and one word spoken then will mend it all.’

During the whole of this time she felt that she was ill-using him.  She knew that she loved him with all her heart; that it would nearly kill her to part with him; that she had heard his renewed offer with an ecstasy of joy.  She acknowledged to herself that he was giving proof of his devotion as strong as any which a girl could receive from her lover.  And yet she could hardly bring herself to say the word he longed to hear.  That word once said, and then she knew that she must succumb to her love for ever!  That word once said, and there would be nothing for her but to spoil him with her idolatry!  That word once said, and she must continue to repeat it into his ears, till perhaps he might be tired of hearing it!  And now he had threatened her, and how could she speak it after that?  She certainly would not speak it unless he asked her again without such threat.  And so they walked on again in silence.

‘Patty,’ he said at last.  ’By the heavens above us you shall answer me.  Do you love me?’

She now stood still, and almost trembled as she looked up into his face.  She stood opposite to him for a moment, and then placing her two hands on his shoulders, she answered him.  ‘I do, I do, I do,’ she said, ’with all my heart; with all my heart—­with all my heart and strength.’  And then her head fell upon his breast.

Captain Broughton was almost as much surprised as delighted by the warmth of the acknowledgment made by the eager-hearted passionate girl whom he now held within his arms.  She had said it now; the words had been spoken; and there was nothing for her but to swear to him over and over again with her sweetest oaths, that those words were true—­true as her soul.  And very sweet was the walk down from thence to the parsonage gate.  He spoke no more of the distance of the ground, or the length of his day’s journey.  But he stopped her at every turn that he might press her arm the closer to his own, that he might look into the brightness of her eyes, and prolong his hour of delight.  There were no more gibes now on her tongue, no raillery at his London finery, no laughing comments on his coming and going.  With downright honesty she told him everything:  how she had loved him before her heart was warranted in such a passion; how, with much thinking, she had resolved that it would be unwise to take him at his first word, and had thought it better that he should return to London, and then think over it; how she had almost repented of her courage when she had feared, during those long summer days, that he would forget her; and how her heart had leapt for joy when her old friend had told her that he was coming.