me. Believe me, you will need all your thoughts."
She looked at me steadily a moment, and I returned her glance. During that moment I was reflecting whether I might silently emphasize my request by laying a lover's hand upon her shoulder. I decided that I might not. She walked over and quietly seated herself in a low chair by the fire. Here she patiently folded her arms. I sat down before her.
"With you, Miss Blunt," said I, "one must be very explicit. You are not in the habit of taking things for granted. You have a great deal of imagination, but you rarely exercise it on the behalf of other people." I stopped a moment.
"Is that my crime?" asked my companion.
"It's not so much a crime as a vice," said I; "and perhaps not so much a vice as a virtue. Your crime is, that you are so stone-cold to a poor devil who loves you."
She burst into a rather shrill laugh. I wonder whether she thought I meant Johnson.
"Who are you speaking for, Mr. Locksley?" she asked.
"Are there so many? For myself."
"Honestly?"
"Honestly doesn't begin to express it."
"What is that French phrase that you are forever using? I think I may say, 'Allons, donc!'"
"Let us speak plain English, Miss Blunt."
"'Stone-cold' is certainly very plain English. I don't see the relative importance of the two branches of your proposition. Which is the principal, and which the subordinate clause,—that I am stone-cold, as you call it, or that you love me, as you call it?"
"As I call it? What would you have me call it? For God's sake, Miss Blunt, be serious, or I shall call it something else. Yes, I love you. Don't you believe it?"
"I am open to conviction."
"Thank God!" said I.
And I attempted to take her hand.
"No, no, Mr. Locksley," said she,—"not just yet, if you please."
"Action speaks louder than words," said I.
"There is no need of speaking loud. I hear you perfectly."
"I certainly sha'n't whisper," said I; "although it is the custom, I believe, for lovers to do so. Will you be my wife?"
"I sha'n't whisper, either, Mr. Locksley. Yes, I will."
And now she put out her hand.—That's my fact.
September 12th.—We are to be married within three weeks.
September 19th.—I have been in New York a week, transacting business. I got back yesterday. I find every one here talking about our engagement. Esther tells me that it was talked about a month ago, and that there is a very general feeling of disappointment that I am not rich.
"Really, if you don't mind it," said I, "I don't see why others should."
"I don't know whether you are rich or not," says Esther; "but I know that I am."
"Indeed! I was not aware that you had a private fortune," etc., etc.
This little farce is repeated in some shape every day. I am very idle. I smoke a great deal, and lounge about all day, with my hands in my pockets. I am free from that ineffable weariness of ceaseless giving which I experienced six months ago. I was shorn of my hereditary trinkets at that period; and I have resolved that this engagement, at all events, shall have no connection with the shops. I was balked of my poetry once; I sha'n't be a second time. I don't think there is much danger of this. Esther deals it out with full hands. She takes a very pretty interest in her simple outfit,—showing me triumphantly certain of her purchases, and making a great mystery about others, which she is pleased to denominate tablecloths and napkins. Last evening I
