“There,” she said, seating me on a sofa by her side, and speaking in a consoling tone one would use to a child who had burnt his apron, or broke the sugar-bowl, “don’t think anything more of it.”  She was wiping the blood from pussy’s autograph on my face with her handkerchief—­“Accidents will happen, you know!”

She was so close to me—­her sweet face so very near mine—­and the temptation was so great that I trust I may be excused, especially as I am a bashful man, and not in the habit of committing such indiscretions.

I threw my arms around her and paid back, with interest, the kiss I had kept so long.  A burning blush overspread her face.

“Oh, Roy! how could you?” she exclaimed, reproachfully.

I had gone too far to retreat; the words which for years had filled my heart struggled up to my lips and clamored for utterance.

“Florence!” I cried, passionately, “I love you! and I want you to be entirely mine!  Take me, and cure me of the bashful folly which has been the bane of my life!”

She did not reply.  I was in a tumult of fear and hope, but a sort of desperate courage kept me firm.

“One word, Florence, only one word!  Am I to be consigned to Hades, or Paradise?  Do not keep me in suspense!”

She nestled closer to my side; her soft cheek rested against mine; her breath swept my lips.  She spoke but one word in accents of deepest tenderness, and that word was my name—­

“Roy!”

“Florence! my darling!”

I trust that everybody will forgive me, and feel charitably toward me, when I declare on my honor that I was happier, at that moment, than I had ever been in my life before!  “Popping the question” is acknowledged by all to be a serious piece of business; and if ordinary men find it a serious business, how much more terrible must it be to a bashful individual like myself?

A silence fell between Florence and me; perhaps I was holding her so close to my heart that the effort of speaking was difficult, I should not wonder.  By-and-by she lifted up her face, and said, quietly: 

“Did you mean for me to marry you, Roy?”

“Marry me?  Yes, dearest, and that, too, before many days have elapsed!  I have been a fool so long that now I cannot afford to wait!”

“Yes; but if I promise myself to you, how can I be sure that, on the way to the altar, you will not jump over the fence, and leave me to fate and Will Richardson?”

“Confound Will Richardson!  Florence, forgive me!  I was little less than a brute!  Is there peace between us?”

“Both peace and love,” she whispered, softly; and my heart was at rest.

My mother was overjoyed by the turn affairs had taken.  Everything had happened just as she had wished; and, to this day, the good lady idolizes tomatoes, insisting upon it that it was through the agency of those preserves that Florence and I came to an understanding.  It might have been—­I cannot tell—­great events sometimes originate in small causes.