“Not as you would have me do.  I do love you very dearly, very dearly, indeed.  I would go to you in any trouble, exactly as I would go to a brother.”

“And must that be all, Bell?”

“Is not that all the sweetest love that can be felt?  But you must not think me ungrateful, or proud.  I know well that you are—­are proposing to do for me much more than I deserve.  Any girl might be proud of such an offer.  But, dear Bernard—­”

“Bell, before you give me a final answer, sleep upon this and talk it over with your mother.  Of course you were unprepared, and I cannot expect that you should promise me so much without a moment’s consideration.”

“I was unprepared, and therefore I have not answered you as I should have done.  But as it has gone so far, I cannot let you leave me in uncertainty.  It is not necessary that I should keep you waiting.  In this matter I do know my own mind.  Dear Bernard, indeed it cannot be as you have proposed.”

She spoke in a low voice, and in a tone that had in it something of almost imploring humility; but, nevertheless, it conveyed to her cousin an assurance that she was in earnest; an assurance also that that earnest would not readily be changed.  Was she not a Dale?  And when did a Dale change his mind?  For a while he sat silent by her; and she too, having declared her intention, refrained from further words.  For some minutes they thus remained, looking down into the ha-ha.  She still kept her old position, holding her hands clasped together over her knees; but he was now lying on his side, supporting his head upon his arm, with his face indeed turned towards her, but with his eyes fixed upon the grass.  During this time, however, he was not idle.  His cousin’s answer, though it had grieved him, had not come upon him as a blow stunning him for a moment, and rendering him unfit for instant thought.  He was grieved, more grieved than he had thought he would have been.  The thing that he had wanted moderately, he now wanted the more in that it was denied to him.  But he was able to perceive the exact truth of his position, and to calculate what might be his chances if he went on with his suit, and what his advantage if he at once abandoned it.

“I do not wish to press you unfairly, Bell; but may I ask if any other preference—­”

“There is no other preference,” she answered.  And then again they were silent for a minute or two.

“My uncle will be much grieved at this,” he said at last.

“If that be all,” said Bell, “I do not think that we need either of us trouble ourselves.  He can have no right to dispose of our hearts.”

“I understand the taunt, Bell.”

“Dear Bernard, there was no taunt.  I intended none.”

“I need not speak of my own grief.  You cannot but know how deep it must be.  Why should I have submitted myself to this mortification had not my heart been concerned?  But that I will bear, if I must bear it—­” And then he paused, looking up at her.