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Carrie looked at him with the tenderness which virtue ever feels in
its hope of reclaiming vice. How could such a man need
reclaiming? His errors, what were they, that she could correct?
Small they must be, where all was so fine. At worst, they were
gilded affairs, and with what leniency are gilded errors viewed.
He put himself in such a lonely light that she was deeply moved.
"Is it that way?" she mused.
He slipped his arm about her waist, and she could not find the
heart to draw away. With his free hand he seized upon her fingers.
A breath of soft spring wind went bounding over the road, rolling
some brown twigs of the previous autumn before it. The horse
paced leisurely on, unguided.
"Tell me," he said, softly, "that you love me."
Her eyes fell consciously.
"Own to it, dear," he said, feelingly; "you do, donít you?"
She made no answer, but he felt his victory.
"Tell me," he said, richly, drawing her so close that their lips were
near together. He pressed her hand warmly, and then released it to
touch her cheek.
"You do?" he said, pressing his lips to her own.
For answer, her lips replied.
"Now," he said, joyously, his fine eyes ablaze, "youíre my own
girl, arenít you?"
By way of further conclusion, her head lay softly upon his