“Cousin Walter, I thank you in the name of that small company.”

“Until I saw you, and you converted me in one day.”

“Only to the blondes?”

“Only to one of them.  My sweet Mary, the situation is serious.  You, whose eye nothing escapes—­you must have seen long ago how I love you.”

“Never mind what I have seen, Walter,” said Mary, whose bosom was beginning to heave.

“Very well,” said Walter; “then I will tell you as if you didn’t know it.  I admired you at first sight; every time I was with you I admired you, and loved you more and more.  It is my heaven to see you and to hear you speak.  Whether you are grave or gay, saucy or tender, it is all one charm, one witchcraft.  I want you for my wife, and my child, and my friend.  Mary, my love, my darling, how could I marry any woman but you? and you, could you marry any man but me, to break the heart that beats only for you?”

This and the voice of love, now ardent, now broken with emotion, were more than sweet, saucy Mary could trifle with; her head drooped slowly upon his shoulder, and her arm went round his neck, and the tremor of her yielding frame and the tears of tenderness that flowed slowly from her fair eyes told Walter Clifford without a word that she was won.

He had the sense not to ask her for words.  What words could be so eloquent as this?  He just held her to his manly bosom, and trembled with love and joy and triumph.

She knew, too, that she had replied, and treated her own attitude like a sentence in rather a droll way.  “But for all that,” said she, “I don’t mean to be a wicked girl if I can help.  This is an age of wicked young ladies.  I soon found that out in the newspapers; that and science are the two features.  And I have made a solemn vow not to be one of them”—­(query, a science or a naughty girl)—­“making mischief between father and son.”

“No more you shall, dear,” said Walter.  “Leave it to me.  We must be patient, and all will come right.”

“Oh, I’ll be true to you, dear, if that is all,” said Mary.

“And if you would not mind just temporizing a little, for my sake, who love you?”

“Temporize!” said Mary, eagerly.  “With all my heart.  I’ll temporize till we are all dead and buried.”

“Oh, that will be too long for me,” said Walter.

“Oh, never do things by halves,” said the ready girl.

If his tongue had been as prompt as hers, he might have said that “temporizing” was doing things by halves; but he let her have the last word.  And perhaps he lost nothing, for she would have had that whether or no.

So this day was another era in their love.  Girls after a time are not content to see they are beloved; they must hear it too; and now Walter had spoken out like a man, and Mary had replied like a woman.  They were happy, and walked hand in hand purring to one another, instead of sparring any more.