He was not dressed as usual.  In the first place, there was a round hat on the table, such as men wear in cities.  She had never before seen such a hat with him except on a Sunday.  And he wore a black cloth coat, and dark brown pantaloons, and a black silk handkerchief.  She observed it all, and thought that he had not changed for the better.  As she looked into his face, it seemed to her more common,—­meaner than before.  No doubt he was good-looking,—­but his good-looks were almost repulsive to her.  He had altogether lost his little swagger;—­but he had borne that little swagger well, and in her presence it had never been offensive.  Now he seemed as though he had thrown aside all the old habits of his life, and was pining to death from the loss of them.  “Mary,” he said, “I have come to you,—­for the last time.  I thought I would give myself one more chance, and your father told me that I might have it” He paused, as though expecting an answer.  But she had not yet quite made up her mind.  Had she known her mind, she would have answered him frankly.  She was quite resolved as to that.  If she could once bring herself to give him her hand, she would not coy it for a moment.  “I will be your wife, Larry.”  That was the form on which she had determined, should she find herself able to yield.  But she had not brought herself to it as yet.  “If you can take me, Mary, you will,—­well,—­save me from lifelong misery, and make the man who loves you the best-contented and the happiest man in England.”

“But, Larry, I do not love you”

“I will make you love me.  Good usage will make a wife love her husband.  Don’t you think you can trust me?”

“I do believe that I can trust you for everything good.”

“Is that nothing?”

“It is a great deal, Larry, but not enough;—­not enough to bring together a man and woman as husband and wife.  I would sooner marry a man I loved, though I knew he would ill-use me.”

“Would you?”

“To marry either would be wrong.”

“I sometimes think, dearest, that if I could talk better I should be better able to persuade you.”

“I sometimes think you talk so well that I ought to be persuaded;—­ but I can’t.  It is not lack of talking.”

“What is it, then?”

“Just this;—­my heart does not turn itself that way.  It is the same chance that has made you—­partial to me.”

“Partial!  Why, I love the very air you breathe.  When I am near you, everything smells sweet.  There isn’t anything that belongs to you but I think I should know it, though I found it a hundred miles away.  To have you in the room with me would be like heaven,—­if I only knew that you were thinking kindly of me.”

“I always think kindly of you, Larry.”

“Then say that you will be my wife.”  She paused, and became red up to the roots of her hair.  She seated herself on a chair, and then rose again,—­and again sat down.  The struggle was going on within her, and he perceived something of the truth.  “Say the word once, Mary;—­say it but once.”  And as he prayed to her he came forward and went down upon his knees.