"You need say nothing more, my dear, except what I bid you. My dear
love, you have guessed just what it was that I had to say. Sit down
again, if you please, Cousin, while I tell you."

As I looked at her, a very curious change came across her face. I saw it
at once, but I did not think upon it till afterwards. She had been a
very child just now, in her terror that I should speak--just that
terror, I should suppose, that every maid must have when a man first
speaks to her of love. Yet, as I looked, that terror went from her face,
and her wide eyes narrowed a little as she brought down her brows, and
her parted lips closed. It was, I thought, just that she had conquered
herself, and set herself to hear what I had to say, before answering me
as I wished. She moved very slowly back to her chair, and sat down,
crossing her hands on her lap. That was all that I thought it was, so
little did I know women's hearts, and least of all hers.

I remained yet a moment longer, leaning my forehead on my hand, and my
hand flat upon the tapestry, staring into the red logs, and considering
how to say what I had to say with the least alarm to her. I felt--though
I am ashamed to say it--as it were something of condescension towards
her. I knew that it was a good match for her, for had not her father
drilled that into me by a hundred looks and hints? I knew that I was
something considerable, and like to be more so, and that I was
sacrificing a good deal for her sake. And then a kind of tenderness
came over me as I thought how courageous she was, and good and simple,
and I put these other thoughts away, and turned to her where she sat
with the firelight on her chin and brows and hair, very rigid and still.

"Dolly, my dear," I said, "I think you know what I have to say to you.