At the sound of my footsteps she started, and the colour flooded her face as I came up to her.

She sank on to a seat close by, as if too much agitated to stand.
"I have something I want to say to you," said I, stooping over her, and speaking in my gentlest voice.

"May I say it ?" She moved her lips as if trying to speak, but there was no sound, and she just nodded her head, which then drooped so that I could hardly see her face.
"We have known each other since we were children," I began.
"Yes, Regie dear," murmured Maria.
"We were always very good friends, I think," continued I.
"Oh, yes, Regie dear." "Childhood was a very happy time," said I, sentimentally.
"Oh, yes, Regie dear." "But we can't be children for ever," I continued.
"Oh, no, Regie dear." "Please take what I am going to say kindly, cousin, whatever you may think of it." "Oh, yes, Regie dear." "I hope I may truthfully say that your happiness is, as it ought to be, my chief aim in the matter." Maria's response was inaudible.
"It's no good beating about the bush," said I, desperately clothing my sentiments in slang, after the manner of my age; "the fellow who gets you for a wife, Maria, must be uncommonly fortunate, and I hope that with a good husband, who made your wishes his first consideration, you would not be unhappy in married life yourself." Lower and lower went her head, but still she was silent.
"You say nothing," I went on.

"Probably I am altogether wrong, and you are too kind-hearted to tell me I am an impertinent puppy.

It is Dacrefield--the place only--that you honour with your regard.