‘And now,’ I continued, ’I will tell you what you can still do for me.  I run a little risk just now, and you see for yourself how unavoidable it is for any man of honour.  But if—­but in case of the worst I do not choose to enrich either my enemies or the Prince Regent.  I have here the bulk of what my uncle gave me.  Eight thousand odd pounds.  Will you take care of it for me?  Do not think of it merely as money; take and keep it as a relic of your friend or some precious piece of him.  I may have bitter need of it ere long.  Do you know the old country story of the giant who gave his heart to his wife to keep for him, thinking it safer to repose on her loyalty than his own strength?  Flora, I am the giant—­a very little one:  will you be the keeper of my life?  It is my heart I offer you in this symbol.  In the sight of God, if you will have it, I give you my name, I endow you with my money.  If the worst come, if I may never hope to call you wife, let me at least think that you will use my uncle’s legacy as my widow.’

‘No, not that,’ she said.  ‘Never that.’

‘What then?’ I said.  ’What else, my angel?  What are words to me?  There is but one name that I care to know you by.  Flora, my love!’

‘Anne!’ she said.

What sound is so full of music as one’s own name uttered for the first time in the voice of her we love!

‘My darling!’ said I.

The jealous bars, set at the top and bottom in stone and lime, obstructed the rapture of the moment; but I took her to myself as wholly as they allowed.  She did not shun my lips.  My arms were wound round her body, which yielded itself generously to my embrace.  As we so remained, entwined and yet severed, bruising our faces unconsciously on the cold bars, the irony of the universe—­or as I prefer to say, envy of some of the gods—­again stirred up the elements of that stormy night.  The wind blew again in the tree-tops; a volley of cold sea-rain deluged the garden, and, as the deuce would have it, a gutter which had been hitherto choked up began suddenly to play upon my head and shoulders with the vivacity of a fountain.  We parted with a shock; I sprang to my feet, and she to hers, as though we had been discovered.  A moment after, but now both standing, we had again approached the window on either side.

‘Flora,’ I said, ‘this is but a poor offer I can make you.’

She took my hand in hers and clasped it to her bosom.

‘Rich enough for a queen!’ she said, with a lift in her breathing that was more eloquent than words.  ’Anne, my brave Anne!  I would be glad to be your maidservant; I could envy that boy Rowley.  But, no!’ she broke off, ‘I envy no one—­I need not—­I am yours.’

‘Mine,’ said I, ‘for ever!  By this and this, mine!’

‘All of me,’ she repeated.  ‘Altogether and forever!’

And if the god were envious, he must have seen with mortification how little he could do to mar the happiness of mortals.  I stood in a mere waterspout; she herself was wet, not from my embrace only, but from the splashing of the storm.  The candles had guttered out; we were in darkness.  I could scarce see anything but the shining of her eyes in the dark room.  To her I must have appeared as a silhouette, haloed by rain and the spouting of the ancient Gothic gutter above my head.