"The roses are going off, Bill," she said--pointing to the rose trees. "What a pity they don't last two or three months longer."
I looked at them. "Tell me their names, Mary?"
"Sharman Crawford, Caroline Testout, Daily Mail, La France, Betty, Xavier----"
I interrupted her. "Some roses are always with us," I ventured.
"I meant you," I replied. Lamely, I'm afraid. It sounded so, at least.
She smiled very sweetly. "That's very nice of you, Bill. I hope you really meant it."
"Of course I meant it. I never meant anything half so much in my life before."
"You mustn't make me conceited, Bill--and I'm afraid you will if you talk like that."
"I couldn't make you anything," I declared. "Only a master could make you, and I'm only a big lump of commonplaceness and ordinariness. You're just lovely. And to me, Mary, the loveliest, dearest and sweetest girl in the world,--for I love you."
I caught her by the hand. "I want you to marry me, Mary. After all, I've got some little right to ask you. I've watched you grow up, you know. Give me the right to watch you grow up always."
I watched her face anxiously. And I fancied I saw her sweeping lashes brim with tiny tears. "Tell me--you will, darling?" I urged.
"This is very sudden, Bill--I know that sounds silly--but I can't think of anything else to say--and it's very dear of you to think so much of me."
"Then you _will_?" I said with eagerness.
"I don't know, Bill. I'm not quite sure. Of course, I like you--as we all do--but----"
I tried to take her in my arms but she evaded me.
"There's no one else----?" I asked. "Say there's no one else!"
"No." She spoke very quietly. "You may be easy on that point. There is no one else."
"Then why do you hesitate, dear? Put me out of my misery!"
"You must give me a little time to think it over, Bill." She held out her hand to me, and I took it.
"How long, Mary? How long? It isn't as though I'm a stranger to you."
"Not very long, Bill. I'll promise that. I just want to feel _sure_--you know."
The rest of the day passed miserably for me. Anthony's absence didn't make it any the brighter and Mary's reception of my proposal had left me in an agony of apprehension. One moment I rose to heaven's heights and "struck the stars with my uplifted head"--the next found me in the depths of an intolerable despair. But generally, I was able to find courage and with courage--optimism! "There is no one else," she had said. Perhaps I had tried her too closely after Prescott and Prescott's death. "There is no one else!" Prescott belonged to the past tense. Would she have said that a week ago? I pondered the whole thing over in my mind. And the wondering with its attachment of doubt and uncertainty brought me the alternating moods that I have just described.