“I shall go mad if it continues much longer,” he groaned. “Yes, it will craze me! If I could only escape and fly to new places and scenes that would not remind me of her so constantly, so bitterly! But I cannot leave my grandmother, who has no one but me. I must stay, though I am bound to the rack. I must see my angel and not open my lips in adoration! I must suffer and not utter a cry! Why, it would insult her to tell her I love her! And yet in our innocent childhood she has set by me hours reading out of the same books. She kindled a soul under the poor fisher lad’s rough bosom!—a soul to love and to suffer the anguish of a lost Heaven in the loss of her. Oh, my little angel, did you know what you were doing? Oh, my little angel, my little angel, who am I that I should dare to love you? A poor, rude fisherman, to whom you came as a messenger from heaven to inspire him with intelligent life, with a soul to love and suffer. Oh! my darling, you fill my life! You are my life! I see your bright face shining in the darkness of my room at night. I hear your sweet voice ringing in the silence! What shall I do? Ah, Heaven, what shall I do? If I could ship on one of these schooners that touch here sometimes, and if I could go to new scenes where I should never meet her again, I might conquer this madness. But that is impossible at present. I must not fly from duty. I must stay here and meet whatever fate may have in store for me, and that is insanity or death, I think. Oh! I fear, I fear that I shall go mad some day, and in my madness tell her how I love her! And then—the deluge!” So absorbed was the poor lad’s soul in his love and his woe, that it was a purely mechanical and unconscious work to row back to the islet, secure his boat, and walk up to the cot. He did not “come to himself” until he had run his head against the door. His grandmother opened it, smiled, and said: “Come in, David, and see what the little lady has left here for me and for you.” He started and entered the cottage. Fortunately for him, the dim eyes of age did not perceive his strong emotion. “Sit ’ee down, David, and look. Here are two ribbed flannel petticoats, such as couldn’t be got in this country for love nor money. And here is a navy blue shepherd’s cloth, and a fine large double plaid shawl. Look at ’em, David, lad! But Lor’, men don’t know anything about women’s wear. Well, then, look ’ee here. Here is your present, David—a dozen lovely, large, fine white linen handkerchiefs, every one of them marked with your full name by her own hand, and with her own golden hair, David—with the child’s own golden hair.” “Give them to me!” cried the young man, eagerly catching the parcel from her hand, looking around like some wild animal, with prey that he feared would be snatched from him, and then running up the narrow stairs that led to his own loft. “What’s come to the poor lad?” cried the old woman, gazing after him. “The Lord defend him from being taken with love!”