And, indeed, it was quite a point in his destiny he had reached; the next step you plainly see _was_ an important, an all important one to him. It had been the hope of years that he might win, and one day wed, Rose May; he had lived in that hope; its working out had been one of the most blessed of his thoughts; and now, in five short minutes (perhaps less) he would know if this dear dream were to have fruition, or was it to pass away like the morning dew, leaving him no possibility of ever indulging in it again, that is, with reason—and Joseph was a reasonable youth. As I have stated, he was an uneducated youth, that is, uneducated in the schools, and ignorant and innocent of polite learning, therefore he knew but one way of discovering a fact, and that was by asking a question point-blank. When Rose was about emerging from the wood, from whence a little path led down the ravine to her father’s house, he paused in the walk, and said quite distinctly, “Wait a moment, Rose May. I came to ask you a question I have thought to ask you this long time—will you love me—will you be my wife?” “Yours, Joseph,” replied Rose, as honestly and unreservedly as the question had been put; “Yours—how can you think of such a thing?” “I _have_ thought of it for years, Rose. You have so many brothers and friends, like enough you have considered me as one of them; but I, I have no sister, Rose, no friend I hold half so dear as you. It does not strike me as such a very strange thing to ask you; if you will only think of it, I do not ask you to answer me to-day. Perhaps when you think it all over, the matter will not seem so strange; and I would not have you answer me in haste, dear Rose.” “Never, Joseph Rancy,” answered Rose, speaking rapidly, but kindly, though so firm. “I _have_ always thought of you as a dear friend, that is true, but I can never be any more than that.” “Will you not say any thing more, Rose? Think again; you call me your dear friend, oh, be my wife, my best and dearest friend. Your home is so happy, think of mine, lonely and dreary as it is now; what a paradise it _might_ be were you there! Rose, dear Rose May, I pray you only to think again.” “I have thought, Joseph; do not speak to me so any more, it pains me; there are many others who might make your home as happy, far happier than I; forget that you have had such thoughts about me, my friend.” “How can I forget,” said Joseph, sadly, while for a moment longer he retained her to hear his words, for she was hastening away. “Tell me, Rose,” he said, falteringly, “is there any other—do you love any body better than me?” “Yes, my father and mother.” “Not them—I don’t mean them; the love I ask is not the kind you give to them—but is there another—” “It is not right in you to ask me such questions, you know it is not. Don’t make me think the less of you as a friend by going too far now.”