On this consideration, I compelled myself for some seconds to tolerate her silence, though impatient of it: presently, I repeated the same question--probably, not in the calmest of tones; she looked at me; my face, doubtless, was no model of composure, my eyes no still wells of tranquillity.
"Do speak," I urged; and a very low, hurried, yet still arch voice said-- "Monsieur, vous me faites mal; de grace lachez un peu ma main droite." In truth I became aware that I was holding the said "main droite" in a somewhat ruthless grasp: I did as desired; and, for the third time, asked more gently-- "Frances, how much regard have you for me ?" "Mon maitre, j'en ai beaucoup," was the truthful rejoinder.
"Frances, have you enough to give yourself to me as my wife ?--to accept me as your husband ?" I felt the agitation of the heart, I saw "the purple light of love" cast its glowing reflection on cheeks, temples, neck; I desired to consult the eye, but sheltering lash and lid forbade.
"Monsieur," said the soft voice at last,--"Monsieur desire savoir si je consens--si--enfin, si je veux me marier avec lui ?" "Justement." "Monsieur sera-t-il aussi bon mari qu'il a ete bon maitre ?" "I will try, Frances." A pause; then with a new, yet still subdued inflexion of the voice--an inflexion which provoked while it pleased me--accompanied, too, by a "sourire a la fois fin et timide" in perfect harmony with the tone:-- "C'est a dire, monsieur sera toujours un peu entete exigeant, volontaire-- ?" "Have I been so, Frances ?" "Mais oui; vous le savez bien." "Have I been nothing else ?" "Mais oui; vons avez ete mon meilleur ami." "And what, Frances, are you to me ?" "Votre devouee eleve, qui vous aime de tout son coeur." "Will my pupil consent to pass her life with me?
Speak English now, Frances." Some moments were taken for reflection; the answer, pronounced slowly, ran thus:-- "You have always made me happy; I like to hear you speak; I like to see you; I like to be near you; I believe you are very good, and very superior; I know you are stern to those who are careless and idle, but you are kind, very kind to the attentive and industrious, even if they are not clever.

Master, I should be GLAD to live with you always;" and she made a sort of movement, as if she would have clung to me, but restraining herself she only added with earnest emphasis--"Master, I consent to pass my life with you." "Very well, Frances." I drew her a little nearer to my heart; I took a first kiss from her lips, thereby sealing the compact, now framed between us; afterwards she and I were silent, nor was our silence brief.

Frances' thoughts, during this interval, I know not, nor did I attempt to guess them; I was not occupied in searching her countenance, nor in otherwise troubling her composure.

The peace I felt, I wished her to feel; my arm, it is true, still detained her; but with a restraint that was gentle enough, so long as no opposition tightened it.

My gaze was on the red fire; my heart was measuring its own content; it sounded and sounded, and found the depth fathomless.
"Monsieur," at last said my quiet companion, as stirless in her happiness as a mouse in its terror.