‘And you will be mine?’ As far as eloquence could be of service, Mr Gibson was sufficiently eloquent.  To Dorothy his words appeared good, and true, and affecting.  All their friends did wish it.  There were many reasons why it should be done.  If talking could have done it, his talking was good enough.  Though his words were in truth cold, and affected, and learned by rote, they did not offend her; but his face offended her; and the feeling was strong within her that if she yielded, it would soon be close to her own.  She couldn’t do it.  She didn’t love him, and she wouldn’t do it.  Priscilla would not grudge her her share out of that meagre meal-tub.  Had not Priscilla told her not to marry the man if she did not love him?  She found that she was further than ever from loving him.  She would not do it.’say that you will be mine,’ pleaded Mr Gibson, coming to her with both his hands outstretched.

‘Mr Gibson, I can’t,’ she said.  She was sobbing now, and was half choked by tears.

‘And why not, Dorothy?’

’I don’t know, but I can’t.  I don’t feel that I want to be married at all.’

‘But it is honourable.’

‘It’s no use, Mr Gibson; I can’t, and you oughtn’t to ask me any more.’

‘Must this be your very last answer?’

‘What’s the good of going over it all again and again.  I can’t do it.’

‘Never, Miss Stanbury?’

‘No never.’

‘That is cruel, very cruel.  I fear that you doubt my love.’

’It isn’t cruel, Mr Gibson.  I have a right to have my own feelings, and I can’t.  If you please, I’ll go away now.’  Then she went, and he was left standing alone in the room.  His first feeling was one of anger.  Then there came to be mixed with that a good deal of wonder and then a certain amount of doubt.  He had during the last fortnight discussed the matter at great length with a friend, a gentleman who knew the world, and who took upon himself to say that he specially understood female nature.  It was by advice from this friend that he had been instigated to plead his own cause.  ‘Of course she means to accept you,’ the friend had said.  ’Why the mischief shouldn’t she?  But she has some flimsy, old-fashioned country idea that it isn’t maidenly to give in at first.  You tell her roundly that she must marry you.’  Mr Gibson was just reaching that roundness which his friend had recommended when the lady left him and he was alone.

Mr Gibson was no doubt very much in love with Dorothy Stanbury.  So much we may take for granted.  He, at least, believed that he was in love with her.  He would have thought it wicked to propose to her had he not been in love with her.  But with his love was mingled a certain amount of contempt which had induced him to look upon her as an easy conquest.  He had been perhaps a little ashamed of himself for being in love with Dorothy, and had almost believed the Frenches when they had spoken of her as a poor