a tone in his voice, and a touch upon his fingers, of which she could not altogether refuse to accept the meaning.  And others had spoken of it, the two Miss Prettymans and her friend Lily.  Yet she would not admit to herself that it could be so, and she would not allow herself to confess to herself that she loved him.  Then had come the last killing misery to which her father had been subjected.  He had been accused of stealing money, and had been committed to be tried for the theft.  From that moment, at any rate, any hope, if there had been a hope, must be crushed.  But she swore to herself bravely that there had been no such hope.  And she assured herself also that nothing had passed which had entitled her to expect anything beyond ordinary friendship from the man of whom she certainly had thought much.  Even if those touches and those tones and those glances had meant anything, all such meaning must be annihilated by this disgrace which had come upon her.  She might know that her father was innocent; but the world thought differently, and she, her brothers and sister, and her mother and her poor father, must bend to the world’s opinion.  If those dangerous joys had meant anything, they must be taken as meaning nothing more.

Thus she had argued with herself, and, fortified by such self-teachings, she had come down to Allington.  Since she had been with her friends there had come upon her from day to day a clear conviction that her arguments had been undoubtedly true—­a clear conviction which had been very cold to her heart in spite of all her courage.  She had expected nothing, hoped for nothing, and yet when nothing came she was sad.  She thought of one special half-hour in which he had said almost all that he might have said—­more than he ought to have said;—­of a moment during which her hand had remained in his; of a certain pressure with which he had put her shawl upon her shoulders.  If he had only written to her one word to tell her that he believed her father was innocent!  But no; she had no right to expect anything from him.  And then Lily had ceased to talk of him, and she did expect nothing.  Now he was there before her, asking her to come to him and be his wife.  Yes; she would kiss his shoebuckles, only that the kissing of his shoebuckles would bring upon him that injury which he should never suffer from her hands!  He had been generous, and her self-pride was satisfied.  But her other pride was touched, and she also would be generous.  ’Can you not bring yourself to give me some answer?’ he had said to her.  Of course she must give him an answer, but how would she give it?

‘You are very kind,’ she said.

‘I would be more than kind.’

’So you are.  Kind is a cold word when used to such a friend at such a time.’

‘I would be everything on earth to you that a man can be to a woman.’

’I know I ought to thank you if I knew how.  My heart is full of thanks; it is indeed.’