“You have some friend, I know,” he said.

“More than one I hope.”

“Some special friend.  Who is he, Mary?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Morton” She then thought that he was still alluding to Lawrence Twentyman.

“Tell me, Mary.”

“What am I to tell you?”

“Your father says that there is some one.”

“Papa!”

“Yes;—­your father.”

Then she remembered it all;—­how she had been driven into a half confession to her father.  She could not say there was nobody.  She certainly could not say who that some one was.  She could not be silent, for by silence she would be confessing a passion for some other man,—­a passion which certainly had no existence.  “I don’t know why papa should talk about me,” she said, “and I certainly don’t know why you should repeat what he said.”

“But there is some one?” She clenched her fist, and hit out at the air with her parasol, and knit her brows as she looked up at him with a glance of fire in her eye which he had never seen there before.  “Believe me, Mary,” he said; “if ever a girl had a sincere friend, you have one in me.  I would not tease you by impertinence in such a matter.  I will be as faithful to you as the sun.  Do you love any one?”

“Yes,” she said turning round at him with ferocity and shouting out her answer as she pressed on.

“Who is he, Mary?”

“What right have you to ask me?  What right can any one have?  Even your aunt would not press me as you are doing.”

“My aunt could not have the same interest.  Who is he, Mary?”

“I will not tell you.”

He paused a few moments and walked on a step or two before he spoke again.  “I would it were I,” he said.

“What!” she ejaculated.

“I would it were I,” he repeated.

One glance of her eye stole itself round into his face, and then her face was turned quickly to the ground.  Her parasol which had been raised drooped listless from her hand.  All unconsciously she hastened her steps and became aware that the tears were streaming from her eyes.  For a moment or two it seemed to her that all was still hopeless.  If he had no more to say than that, certainly she had not a word.  He had made her no tender of his love.  He had not told her that in very truth she was his chosen one.  After all she was not sure that she understood the meaning of those words “I would it were I” But the tears were coming so quick that she could see nothing of the things around her, and she did not dare even to put her hand up to her eyes.  If he wanted her love,—­if it was possible that he really wished for it,—­why did he not ask for it?  She felt his footsteps close to hers, and she was tempted to walk on quicker even than before.  Then there came the fingers of a hand round her waist, stealing gradually on till she felt the pressure of his body on her shoulders.  She put her hand up weakly, to push back the intruding fingers,—­only to leave it tight in his grasp.  Then,—­then was the first moment in which she realized the truth.  After all he did love her.  Surely he would not hold her there unless he meant her to know that he loved her.  “Mary,” he said.  To speak was impossible, but she turned round and looked at him with imploring eyes.  “Mary,—­say that you will be my wife.”