"
Polly's head drooped further forward; now, the rim of her bonnet hid her
face.
"You aren't afraid of me, are you, Polly?"
Oh, no, she was not afraid.
"Nor have you forgotten me?"
Polly choked a little, in her attempt to answer. She could not tell him
that she had carried his letters about with her by day, and slept with
them under her pillow; that she knew every word in them by heart, and
had copied and practised the bold flourish of the Dickens-like
signature; that she had never let his name cross her lips; that she
thought him the kindest, handsomest, cleverest man in the world, and
would willingly have humbled herself to the dust before him: all this
boiled and bubbled in her, as she brought forth her poor little "no."
"Indeed, I hope not," went on Mahony. "Because, Polly, I've come to ask
you if you will be my wife."
Rocks, trees, hills, suddenly grown tipsy, went see-sawing round Polly,
when she heard these words said. She shut her eyes, and hid her face in
her hands. Such happiness seemed improbable--was not to be grasped. "Me
? . . . your wife?" she stammered through her fingers.
"Yes, Polly. Do you think you could learn to care for me a little, my
dear? No, don't be in a hurry to answer. Take your own time."
But she needed none. With what she felt to be a most unmaidenly
eagerness, yet could not subdue, she blurted out: "I know I could. I ...
I do."
"Thank God!" said Mahony. "Thank God for that!"
He let his arms fall to his sides; he found he had been holding them
stiffly out from him.
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