"Don't you like me, Anna?" Thornton asked at last, his voice very low
and tender, as he bent over her and tried to take her hand.
"Yes, very much," she answered, and, emboldened by her reply, Thornton
lifted up her head, and was about to kiss her forehead, when she
started away from him, exclaiming:
"No, Mr. Hastings. You must not do that. I cannot be your wife. It
hurts me to tell you so, for I believe you are sincere in your
proposal; but it can never be. Forgive me, and let us both forget this
wretched summer."
"It has not been wretched to me. It has been a very happy summer,
since I knew you, at least," Mr. Hastings said, and then he asked
again that she should reconsider her decision. He could not take it as
her final one. He had loved her too much, had thought too much of
making her his own to give her up so easily, he said, urging so many
reasons why she should think again, that Anna said to him, at last:
"If you would rather have it so, I will wait a month, but you must
not hope that my answer will be different from what it is to-night. I
want your friendship, though, the same as if this had never happened.
I like you, Mr. Hastings, because you have been kind to me, and made
my stay in Newport so much pleasanter than I thought it could be.
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