“Only I,” replied Roger. “Dry your eyes directly, there's a good girl. I have something to tell you that I hope will make you glad. I told you before that you should have him, after all.” “Oh--” cried Jane clasping her hands, “has my father----” “No, no; not that,” rejoined her brother; “but something that will do quite as well. Only you must speak low and let nobody hear, or else we shall spoil the whole business. Colin and I have settled it altogether between us. You _must_ do it, you know, for your own sake as well as his, and do not hesitate a moment about it. I'll tell you plainly what it is,--you must give your consent for Colin to run away with you.” Jane shook her head. “You _must_,” repeated Roger; “there is no other mode of managing it: _I_ will go with you, and we will all three fly down to Mr. Woodruff's house, where we will have a parson to marry you directly, so as to make the matter safe; and then father and mother, and everybody else may make the best of the matter they can!” “Do not play with me,” said Jane; “I cannot indeed bear it now!” “I never was more in earnest in my life!” exclaimed Roger, emphatically; “I tell you it is all settled, and you _must_ do it, whether you like it or not. I won't see your happiness sacrificed for the want of a little spirit on your part when it is so much required. Look here--” And Roger drew forth a letter which Colin had hastily indited before taking his leave, and confided to him to deliver to his sister at the earliest opportunity. “Here,” he continued, “is a note from Colin upon the subject, which I dare say you will not refuse to read.” “It is too dark,” answered Jane; “besides I dare not. What _would_ they all think of me if I were to listen to such a proposal as this?” “Nonsense!” exclaimed Roger; “they would think a great deal better of you after it was all over, than ever they could think of themselves, if they should have to put up for you a tablet in the church, with an inscription that you had died of disappointment brought on by their own rigour. Here, take it, and I will fetch you a lamp to read by.” Jane took the letter, and her brother hastened out to fulfil his intention. The moment he was gone, Jane rose with uncommon alacrity and hastened to the window. Yes, there was yet light enough to make most of it out, although she thought it dark not a minute ago. The letter said a hundred sweet and happy things, such as she felt certain no man had ever said before; such as even _he_ had not ever thought of saying on any other occasion. It promised as certain an easy reconcilement with all parties; it told her he was sure of it, and bade her feel no fear. It visioned a world of delight for the future, and represented its writer as lost utterly, if she would not listen to her brother's advice and consent to act upon it. And then it concluded with more love signified in half a dozen little words than anybody else, she believed, could express in half a volume.