Mr. Fletcher had no doubt what
the answer would be, and was in no haste to get it, for that was one
of the moments that are so pleasant and so short-lived they should
be enjoyed to the uttermost. He liked to watch her color come and
go, to see the asters on her bosom tremble with the quickened
beating of her heart, and tasted, in anticipation, the satisfaction
of the moment when that pleasant voice of hers would falter out its
grateful assent. Drawing yet nearer, he went on, still in the
persuasive tone that would have been more lover-like if it had been
less assured.
"I think I am not mistaken in believing that you care for me a
little. You must know how fond I am of you, how much I need you, and
how glad I should be to give all I have if I might keep you always
to make my hard life happy. May I, Christie?"
"You would soon tire of me. I have no beauty, no accomplishments, no
fortune,--nothing but my heart, and my hand to give the man I marry.
Is that enough?" asked Christie, looking at him with eyes that
betrayed the hunger of an empty heart longing to be fed with genuine
food.
But Mr. Fletcher did not understand its meaning; he saw the humility
in her face, thought she was overcome by the weight of the honor he
did her, and tried to reassure her with the gracious air of one who
wishes to lighten the favor he confers.
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