congenial; and who, I am sure, from some cause or other, are not friendly to you. Tell me now, why did you not send me even one word, formal though it might have been, to my bouquet—arranged with as much skill as I possessed, and bearing its Oriental meaning for your eye to read?” “Your bouquet!” And in my surprise I turned to him my face, forgetful of my tears. “When did you send it—and by whom?” “Tears, dearest Florence! Did you not receive it? But say that, and a load will have been lifted from my heart. Did not Miss Clare bring you one from me yesterday morning?” “Never; nor even the simplest inquiry has reached me from you.” And my eyes looked the reproach I did not utter. “Strange, very strange! What could have been their motives for this conduct? Yesterday, dear Florence, I sent a bouquet, hoping that it would commence what I have so long wished but feared to tell you. I sent you a rose-bud and other flowers, of which you yourself told me the language when we sat by the window, one rainy afternoon, longing to be out for this same walk. You laughingly did as I requested you, instructed me into their meaning, and I said that when I sent a bouquet so arranged, the lady who might receive it must think it uttered what I feared to say. Ah! Florence, I was sure that you knew I was speaking in serious earnestness, for your face colored brightly, and I could see the trembling of the little fingers as you began to untie the flowers, though you carefully kept your face averted. Will you be angry with me when I say, that I began _then_ to hope what I so earnestly wish to ask from you? Do you not understand me, Florence?” I answered not, but sat with face averted, and head bowed, to hide the emotions his words caused. “Your answer is needless, for I know that you long ago have understood my heart. Yes; last night in this your favorite spot I sat me down to think upon you, and your winning, artless character. I felt that with you I should be content to exclaim, ‘Oh! that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her.’ And that fair spirit you are conscious, sweet Florence, must be yourself. Say, will you be willing, dear one, to minister to me through life?” I could hardly repress the low cry of joy which sprung from my heart to my lips, yet I did so, and sat apparently calm at his side, whilst he continued still more passionately— “Yes; _you_, dearest Florence, are the fair spirit whom I devotedly love. Tell me, can you—will you be mine? And, though a desert be not our dwelling-place, make with your love a paradise of my earthly habitation. Say—answer me _now_, Florence, dear one—will you be my wife?”