high, her eyes were blazing, and her cheeks were crimson. But her words were meek enough.
“I will marry Frank if you wish it, Stephen,” she said. “ You are my friend. I have never crossed your wishes, and, as you say, I have never regretted being always guided by them. I will do exactly as you wish in this case also, I promise you that. But, in so solemn a question, I must be very certain what you do wish. There must be no doubt in my mind or heart. Look me squarely in the eyes, Stephen — as you haven’t done once to-day, no, nor once since I came home from school — and, so looking, tell me that you wish me to marry Frank Douglas and I will do it! Do you, Stephen?”
I had to look her in the eyes, since nothing else would do her; and, as I did so, all the might of manhood in me rose up in hot revolt against the lie I would have told her. That unfaltering, impelling gaze of hers drew the truth from my lips in spite of myself.
“No, I don’t wish you to marry Frank Douglas, a thousand times no!” I said passionately. “I don’t wish you to marry any man on earth but myself. I love you — I love you, Betty. You are dearer to me than life — dearer to me than my own happiness. It was your happiness I thought of — and so I asked you to marry Frank because I believed he would make you a happy woman. That is all!”
