"He asked me to marry him, and--and--papa said yes." "I ask you," said Lionel in a low voice, "which is it that you love ?" She did not answer.

She stood before him the prettiest picture of distress imaginable; her hands clasped, her large blue eyes filled with tears, her shower of golden hair shading her burning cheeks.
"If you have been surprised or terrified into this engagement, loving him not, will you give him up for me ?" tenderly whispered Lionel.
"Not--you understand--if your love be his.

In that case, I would not ask it.

But, without reference to myself at all, I doubt--and I have my reasons for it--if Frederick Massingbird be worthy of you." Was she wavering in her own mind?
She stole a glance upward--at his tall, fine form, his attractive face, its lineaments showing out in that moment, all the pride of the Verners.

A pride that mingled with love.
Lionel bent to her-- "Sibylla, if you love him I have no more to say; if you love me, avow it, as I will then avow my love, my intentions, in the face of day.
Reflect before you speak.