parts of the stream at Barkingham were best
for fishing in. She replied, with a mixture
of modest evasiveness and adorable
simplicity, that she had sometimes seen gentlemen
angling from a meadow-bank about a
quarter of a mile below her flower-garden.
I risked everything in my usual venturesome
way, and asked if she would show me where
the place was, in case I called the next
morning with my fishing-rod. She looked
dutifully at her father. He smiled and
nodded. Inestimable parent!

On rising to take leave, I was rather
curious to know whether he would offer me
a bed in the house, or not. He detected the
direction of my thoughts in my face and
manner, and apologised for not having a bed
to offer me; every spare room in the house
being occupied by his chemical assistants, and
by the lumber of his laboratories. Even
while he was speaking those few words,
Laura's face changed just as I had seen it
change at our first interview. The downcast,
gloomy expression overspread it again.
Her father's eye wandered towards her when
mine did, and suddenly assumed the same
distrustful look which I remembered detecting
in it, under similar circumstances, at
Duskydale. What could this mean?

The doctor shook hands with me in the
hall, leaving the workmanlike footman to
open the door. I stopped to admire a fine
pair of stag's antlers placed over it. The
footman coughed impatiently. I still lingered,
hearing the doctor's footsteps ascending
the stairs. They suddenly stopped; and
then there was a low heavy clang, like the
sound of a closing door made of iron, or of
some other unusually strong material; then
total silence, interrupted by another
impatient cough from the workmanlike footman.
After that, I thought my wisest proceeding
would be to go away before my mysterious
attendant was driven to practical extremities.

Between thoughts of Laura and inquisitive
yearnings to know more about the
doctor's experiments, I passed rather a restless
night at my inn. The next morning, I found
the lovely mistress of my future destiny,
with the softest of shawls on her shoulders,
the brightest of parasols in her hand, and the
smart little straw hat of the day before on
her head, ready to show me the way to the
fishing-place. If I could be sure beforehand
that these pages would only be read by
persons actually occupied in the making of love
—that oldest and longest-established of all
branches of manufacturing industry—I could
go into some very tender and interesting
particulars on the subject of my first day's fishing,
under the adorable auspices of Miss
Knapton. But as I cannot hope for a wholly
sympathetic audience—as there may be
monks, misogynists, political economists,
and other professedly hard-hearted persons
present among those whom I now address—
I think it best to keep to safe generalities,
and to describe my love-making in as few
sentences as the vast, though soft, importance
of the subject will allow me to use. Let me
confess, then, that I assumed the character of
a fastidious angler, and managed to be a
week in discovering the right place to fish in
—always, it is unnecessary to say, under
Laura's guidance. We went up the stream
and down the stream on one side. We
crossed the bridge, and went up the stream
and down the stream on the other. We got
into a punt, and went up the stream (with
great difficulty) and down the stream (with
great ease). We landed on a little island,
and walked all round it, and inspected the
stream attentively from a central point of
view. We found the island damp, and went
back to the bank, and up the stream, and
over the bridge, and down the stream again;
and then, for the first time, the sweet girl
turned appealingly to me, and confessed that
she had exhausted her artless knowledge of
the locality. It was exactly a week from the
day when I had first followed her into the
fields with my fishing-rod over my shoulder;
and I had never yet caught anything but
Laura's hand, and that not with my hook.
We sat down close together on the bank,
entirely in consequence of our despair at not
finding a good fishing-place. I looked at the
brown eyes, and they turned away
observantly down the stream. I followed them,
and they turned away inquiringly up the
stream. Was this angel of patience and
kindness still looking for a fishing-place?
And was it up the stream, after all? No!—
she smiled and shook her head when I asked
the question, and the brown eyes suddenly
stole a look at me. I could hold out no
longer. In one breathless moment I caught
hold of both her hands—in one stammering
sentence I asked her if she would be my wife.

She tried faintly to free her hands—gave
up the attempt—smiled—made an effort to
look grave—gave that up, too—sighed
suddenly—checked herself suddenly—said
nothing. Perhaps I ought to have taken my
answer for granted; but the least business-
like man that ever lived always becomes an
eminently practical character in matters of
love. I repeated my question. She looked
away confusedly; her eye lighted on a corner
of her father's red-brick house, peeping
through a gap in the plantation already
mentioned; and her blushing cheeks lost their
colour instantly. I felt her hands grow cold;
she drew them resolutely out of mine, and
rose with the tears in her eyes. Had I
offended her?

"No," she said, when I asked the question,
and turned to me again, and held out her
hand with such frank, fearless kindness, that
I almost fell on my knees to thank her for it.

Might I hope ever to hear her say Yes to the
question that I had asked on the river-bank?

She sighed bitterly, and turned again
towards the red-brick house.