“Oh! no!  Cousin Roger,” she cried.  “No, no, Cousin Roger!

“It is Yes, Yes, Cousin Dolly,” said I.  “Or at least I hope so.” (I said this with more assurance than I shewed, for if I was sure of anything it was that she loved me in return.  And I stood up and leaned on the chimney-breast.)

She stood there, staring on me; and the flush crept back.

“What have I said?” she whispered.

“You need say nothing more, my dear, except what I bid you.  My dear love, you have guessed just what it was that I had to say.  Sit down again, if you please, Cousin, while I tell you.”

As I looked at her, a very curious change came across her face.  I saw it at once, but I did not think upon it till afterwards.  She had been a very child just now, in her terror that I should speak—­just that terror, I should suppose, that every maid must have when a man first speaks to her of love.  Yet, as I looked, that terror went from her face, and her wide eyes narrowed a little as she brought down her brows, and her parted lips closed.  It was, I thought, just that she had conquered herself, and set herself to hear what I had to say, before answering me as I wished.  She moved very slowly back to her chair, and sat down, crossing her hands on her lap.  That was all that I thought it was, so little did I know women’s hearts, and least of all hers.

I remained yet a moment longer, leaning my forehead on my hand, and my hand flat upon the tapestry, staring into the red logs, and considering how to say what I had to say with the least alarm to her.  I felt—­though I am ashamed to say it—­as it were something of condescension towards her.  I knew that it was a good match for her, for had not her father drilled that into me by a hundred looks and hints?  I knew that I was something considerable, and like to be more so, and that I was sacrificing a good deal for her sake.  And then a kind of tenderness came over me as I thought how courageous she was, and good and simple, and I put these other thoughts away, and turned to her where she sat with the firelight on her chin and brows and hair, very rigid and still.

“Dolly, my dear,” I said, “I think you know what I have to say to you.  It is that I love you very dearly, as you must have seen—­”

She made a little quick movement as if to speak.

“Wait, cousin,” I said, “till I have done.  I tell you that I love you very dearly, and honor you, and can never forget what you did for me.  And I am a man of a very considerable estate and a Catholic; so there is nothing to think of in that respect.  And your father too will be pleased, I know; and we are—­”

Again she made that little quick movement; and I stopped.

“Well, my dear?”

She looked up at me very quietly.

“Well, Cousin Roger; and what then?”

That confused me a little; for I had thought that she had understood.  And then I thought that perhaps she too was confused.