my mother in you that I dare tell all these the deepest secrets of my heart. And now I will say no more, lest repetition weaken what hath already been said. But you will speak to the captain, will you not? Tell him--nay, you shall, if you see fit and find him in the mood, you shall show him this letter; for though ’twas written for no eyes but my father’s and mother’s, ’tis the truth as I would speak it before God, and if all went as I would have it, Lora’s father should be my father too,--not like you, mine own father, but in some sort; and well do I know how dear he loves mine own sweet maid. Mayhap that love in him will answer to this cry of love from me, since both are fixed upon the same dear object. But there! I will stop at this word, for should I go on all night and all to-morrow, my pen could only trace again and again the words it hath so often writ. I love her, I love her, I love her! “‘On this other slip of paper I have copied out some verses lent me by a lady of the court, Countess of Pembroke she is called, and a right sweet and fair dame she is; but still I must speak of her as Sir Henry Wotton, who wrote the verses, saith to all other ladies as compared with his sovereign lady, the English princess whom he served after she became queen of Bohemia,-- “What’s your praise, When Philomel her voice doth raise!” “‘And so with my humble duty and constant affection, I am, dear sir, Your humble and obedient son, WRESTLING BREWSTER. “‘P. S. The copy of verses is meant for Mistress Lora’s own hand, if her father makes no objection. W. B.’” “And here are the verses,” said the Elder, as the captain took the letter and immediately gave it back, while conflicting emotions strove eloquently upon his face. Then accepting the second paper, and turning his shoulder to the failing light, he read half aloud:-- “‘Ye meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, You common people of the skies, What are you when the sun shall rise! “‘You curious chanters of the wood That warble forth Dame Nature’s lays, Thinking your meaning understood By your weak accents, what’s your praise When Philomel her voice doth raise! “‘Ye violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year As if the spring were all your own, What are you when the rose is blown! “‘So when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice a queen, Tell me, is she not one designed The Eclipse and Glory of her kind?’”