"Can I, dare I hope, that it is not spoken in vain? I had thought in my pride never to make such avowal,--never again to sue for affection; but your gentleness, your modesty, your virtues of life and heart, have conquered me! I am sure you will treat me with the generosity of a victor. "You know my weaknesses; I would not conceal from you a single one,--even to win you. I can offer nothing to you which will bear comparison in value with what is yours to bestow. I can only offer this feeble hand of mine--to guard you; and this poor heart--to love you! "Am I rash? Am I extravagant, in word, or in hope? Forgive it then, dear Madge, for the sake of our old childish affection; and believe me, when I say, that what is here written--is written honestly and tearfully. Adieu." * * * * * It is with no fervor of boyish passion that you fold this letter: it is with the trembling hand of eager and earnest manhood. They tell you that man is not capable of love: so the September sun is not capable of warmth! It may not indeed be so fierce as that of July; but it is steadier. It does not force great flaunting leaves into breadth and succulence, but it matures whole harvests of plenty! There is a deep and earnest soul pervading the reply of Madge that makes it sacred; it is full of delicacy, and full of hope. Yet it is not final. Her heart lies intrenched within the ramparts of Duty and of Devotion. It is a citadel of strength in the middle of the city of her affections. To win the way to it, there must be not only earnestness of love, but earnestness of life. Weeks roll by, and other letters pass and are answered,--a glow of warmth beaming on either side. You are again at the home of Nelly; she is very joyous; she is the confidante of Madge. Nelly feels, that with all your errors you have enough inner goodness of heart to make Madge happy; and she feels--doubly--that Madge has such excess of goodness as will cover your heart with joy. Yet she tells you very little. She will give you no full assurance of the love of Madge; she leaves that for yourself to win. She will even tease you in her pleasant way, until hope almost changes to despair, and your brow grows pale with the dread--that even now your unworthiness may condemn you. It is summer weather; and you have been walking over the hills of home with Madge and Nelly. Nelly has found some excuse to leave you,--glancing at you most teasingly as she hurries away. You are left sitting with Madge upon a bank tufted with blue violets. You have been talking of the days of childhood, and some word has called up the old chain of boyish feeling, and joined it to your new hope. What you would say crowds too fast for utterance, and you abandon it. But you take from your pocket that little, broken bit of sixpence,--which you have found after long search,--and without a word, but with a look that tells your inmost thought, you lay it in the half-opened hand of Madge.