DORA. Tell him, then, that I'm waiting for him. MILLY. Yeäs, Miss. [_Exit_. DORA _sits pensively and waits_. _Enter_ HAROLD. HAROLD. You are pale, my Dora! but the ruddiest cheek That ever charm'd the plowman of your wolds Might wish its rose a lily, could it look But half as lovely. I was speaking with Your father, asking his consent--you wish'd me-- That we should marry: he would answer nothing, I could make nothing of him; but, my flower, You look so weary and so worn! What is it Has put you out of heart? DORA. It puts me in heart Again to see you; but indeed the state Of my poor father puts me out of heart. Is yours yet living? HAROLD. No--I told you. DORA. When? HAROLD. Confusion!--Ah well, well! the state we all Must come to in our spring-and-winter world If we live long enough! and poor Steer looks The very type of Age in a picture, bow'd To the earth he came from, to the grave he goes to, Beneath the burthen of years. DORA. More like the picture Of Christian in my 'Pilgrim's Progress' here, Bow'd to the dust beneath the burthen of sin. HAROLD. Sin! What sin? DORA. Not his own. HAROLD. That nursery-tale Still read, then? DORA. Yes; our carters and our shepherds Still find a comfort there. HAROLD. Carters and shepherds! DORA. Scorn! I hate scorn. A soul with no religion-- My mother used to say that such a one Was without rudder, anchor, compass--might be Blown everyway with every gust and wreck On any rock; and tho' you are good and gentle, Yet if thro' any want-- HAROLD. Of this religion? Child, read a little history, you will find The common brotherhood of man has been Wrong'd by the cruelties of his religions More than could ever have happen'd thro' the want Of any or all of them. DORA. --But, O dear friend, If thro' the want of any--I mean the true one-- And pardon me for saying it--you should ever Be tempted into doing what might seem Not altogether worthy of you, I think That I should break my heart, for you have taught me To love you. HAROLD. What is this? some one been stirring Against me? he, your rustic amourist, The polish'd Damon of your pastoral here, This Dobson of your idyll? DORA. No, Sir, no! Did you not tell me he was crazed with jealousy, Had threaten'd ev'n your life, and would say anything? Did _I_ not promise not to listen to him, Not ev'n to see the man? HAROLD. Good; then what is it That makes you talk so dolefully? DORA. I told you-- My father. Well, indeed, a friend just now, One that has been much wrong'd, whose griefs are mine,