"Yes."

"Why did you never say anything about it, then?"

"I am not accustomed to talking on the subject, you know. But, really, I had a reason. I did not want to seem to propitiate your favour by any such means; I wished to try my chances with you on my own merits; and that was also a reason why I made my profession in Montreal. I wanted to do it without delay, it is true; I also wanted to do it quietly. I mean everybody shall know; but I wished you to be the first."

There followed a silence. Things rushed into and over Lois's mind with such a sweep and confusion, that she hardly knew what she was thinking or feeling. All her positions were knocked away; all her a.s.sumptions were found baseless; her defences had been erected against nothing; her fears and her hopes were alike come to nought. That is, _bien entendu_, her old fears and her old hopes; and amid the ruins of the latter new ones were starting, in equally bewildering confusion. Like little green heads of daffodils pushing up above the frozen ground, and fair blossoms of hepatica opening beneath a concealing mat of dead leaves.

Ah, they would blossom freely by and by; now Lois hardly knew where they were or what they were.

Seeing her utterly silent and moveless, Mr. Dillwyn did probably the wisest thing he could do, and drove on. For some time the horses trotted and the bells jingled; and by too swift approaches that wilderness of lights which marked the city suburb came nearer and nearer. When it was very near and they had almost entered it, he drew in his reins again and the horses tossed their heads and walked.

"Lois, I think it is fair I should have another answer to my question now."

"What question?" she asked hurriedly.

"You know, I was so daring as to ask to have the care of you for the rest of your natural life--or of mine. What do you say to it?"

Lois said nothing. She could not find words. Words seemed to tumble over one another in her mind,--or thoughts did.

"What answer are you going to give me?" he asked again, more gravely.

"You know, Mr. Dillwyn," said Lois stammeringly, "I never thought,--I never knew before,--I never had any notion, that--that--that you thought so."--

"Thought _so?_--about what?"

"About me."

"I have thought so about you for a great while."

Silence again. The horses, being by this time pretty well exercised, needed no restraining, and walked for their own pleasure. Everything with Lois seemed to be in a whirl.

"And now it becomes necessary to know what you think about me," Mr.

Dillwyn went on, after that pause.

"I am very glad--" Lois said tremulously.

"Of what?"

"That you are a Christian."

"Yes, but," said he, half laughing, "that is not the immediate matter in hand. What do you think of me in my proposed character as having the ownership and the care of you?"

"I have never thought of you so," Lois managed to get out. The words were rather faint, heard, however, as Mr. Dillwyn's hand came just then adjusting and tucking in her fur robes, and his face was thereby near hers.

"And now you _do_ think of me so?--What do you say to me?"

She could not say anything. Never in her life had Lois been at a loss and wrecked in all self-management before.

"You know, it is necessary to say something, that I may know where I stand. I must either stay or go. Will you send me away? or keep me 'for good,' as the children say?"

The tone was not without a touch of grave anxiety now, and impatient earnestness, which Lois heard well enough and would have answered; but it seemed as if her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth. Mr. Dillwyn waited now for her to speak, keeping the horses at a walk, and bending down a little to hear what she would say. One sleigh pa.s.sed them, then another. It became intolerable to Lois.

"I do not want to send you away," she managed finally to say, trembling.

The words, however, were clear and slow-spoken, and Mr. Dillwyn asked no more then. He drove on, and attended to his driving, even went fast; and Lois hardly knew how houses and rocks and vehicles flew past them, till the reins were drawn at Mrs. Wishart's door. Philip whistled; a groom presently appeared from the house and took the horses, and he lifted Lois out. As they were going up the steps he asked softly,

"Is that _all_ you are going to say to me?"

"Isn't it enough for to-night?" Lois returned.

"I see you think so," he said, half laughing. "I don't; but, however--Are you going to be alone to-morrow morning, or will you take another sleigh ride with me?"

"Mrs. Wishart and Madge are going to Mme. Cisco's _matinee_."

"At what o'clock?"

"They will leave here at half-past ten."

"Then I will be here before eleven."

The door opened, and with a grip of her hand he turned away.

CHAPTER XLVII.

PLANS.

Lois went along the hall in that condition of the nerves in which the feet seem to walk without stepping on anything. She queried what time it could be; was the evening half gone? or had they possibly not done tea yet? Then the parlour door opened.

"Lois!--is that you? Come along; you are just in time; we are at tea.

Hurry, now!"

Lois went to her room, wishing that she could any way escape going to the table; she felt as if her friend and her sister would read the news in her face immediately, and hear it in her voice as soon as she spoke.

There was no help for it; she hastened down, and presently perceived to her wonderment that her friends were absolutely without suspicion. She kept as quiet as possible, and found, happily, that she was very hungry. Mrs. Wishart and Madge were busy in talk.

"You remember Mr. Caruthers, Lois?" said the former;--"Tom Caruthers, who used to be here so often?"

"Certainly."

"Did you hear he had made a great match?"

"I heard he was going to be married. I heard that a great while ago."

"Yes, he has made a very great match. It has been delayed by the death of her mother; they had to wait. He was married a few months ago, in Florence. They had a splendid wedding."