was, she found it easier to say nothing. She bit her lips to keep herself from sobbing. She struggled hard, but in vain, to prevent her hands and feet from trembling. She seemed to swing upon her donkey as though like to fall, and would have given much to be upon her own feet upon the sward.
'Si la jeunesse savait. . . . .' There is so much in that wicked old French proverb! Had Frank known more about a woman's mind—had he, that is, been forty-two instead of twenty two—he would at once have been sure of his game, and have felt that Mary's silence told him all he wished to know. But then, had he been forty-two instead of twenty-two, he would not have been so ready to risk the acres of Greshamsbury for the smiles of Mary Thorne.
'If you can't say one word to comfort me, I will go,' said he, disconsolately. 'I made up my mind to tell you this, and so I came over. I told Lady Scatcherd I should not stay,—not even for dinner.'
'I did not know that you were so hurried,' said she, almost in a whisper.
On a sudden he stood still, and pulling the donkey's rein, caused him to stand still also. The beast required very little persuasion to be so guided, and obligingly remained meekly passive.
'Mary, Mary!' said Frank, throwing his arms round her knees as she sat upon her steed, and pressing his face against her body. 'Mary, you were always honest; be honest now. I love you with all my heart. Will you be my wife?'
But still Mary said not a word. She no longer bit her lips; she was beyond that, and was now using all her efforts to prevent her tears from falling absolutely on her lover's face. She said nothing. She could no more rebuke him now and send him from her than she could encourage him. She could only sit there shaking and crying and wishing she was on the ground. Frank, on the whole, rather liked the donkey. It enabled him to approach somewhat nearer to an embrace than he might have found practicable had they both been on their feet. The donkey himself was quite at his ease, and looked as though he was approvingly conscious of what was going on behind his ears.
'I have a right to a word, Mary; say "go," and I will leave you at once.'
But Mary did not say 'go.' Perhaps she would have done so had she been able; but just at present she could say nothing. This came from her having failed to make up her mind in due time as to what course it would best become her to follow.
'One word, Mary; one little word. There, if you will not
