“In spite of———”
“Rather say because of it. You have come out of your past noble and good. Your heart is an angel’s. Give it to me.”
“A little while ago you feared the future too much to even speak.”
“But for you; not for myself. Can you love me?”
She cast herself, wildly sobbing, upon his breast.
“Better than life—than truth itself—than everything.”
“And my own past,” said Lorison, with a note of solicitude—“can you forgive and———”
“I answered you that,” she whispered, “when I told you I loved you.” She leaned away, and looked thoughtfully at him. “If I had not told you about myself, would you have—would you———”
“No,” he interrupted; “I would never have let you know I loved you. I would never have asked you this—Norah, will you be my wife?”
She wept again.
“Oh, believe me; I am good now—I am no longer wicked! I will be the best wife in the world. Don’t think I am—bad any more. If you do I shall die, I shall die!”
While he was consoling her, she brightened up, eager and impetuous. “Will you marry me to-night?” she said. “Will you prove it that way? I have a reason for wishing it to be to-night. Will you?”
Of one of two things was this exceeding frankness the
