"Polly, I'm not going to beat about the bush with you.

I think you know I came here to-day only to see you." 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.