It is true, he was still the gay and jovial sailor, noble-spirited and generous to a fault—but he was more the gentleman, more the man of the world than before he went to foreign parts; and upon the whole, the conclusion was that he was greatly improved, and would most likely turn out to be quite a credit to the town. He had certainly grown handsomer, as he had grown older. His face wore no traces of any inward discontent or disappointment, and it is probable that he had worn his love either lightly or hopefully in his heart. His first inquiry, after his return, however, was for Rose; and hearing she was in New York, he hastened thither to meet her. It was at the close of a summer afternoon when he found himself at the door of the house where he was told she boarded. He inquired for her, walked in, and sat down in the parlor in the dim light of the fading day, which was rendered more obscure in the shadow of the curtained windows. Rose had gone to her room fatigued and somewhat dispirited. The name of her visiter was unannounced, and as she descended with a languid step to the parlor, she was little prepared for the surprise that awaited her. Selwyn rose at her entrance with a confused and doubtful air. “I beg your pardon, madam,” said he, “I called to see Miss Winters—Rose Winters—I understood she was here.” “And so she is, Cousin Robert!” exclaimed Rose. “She is before you, and yet you do not know her. Am I altered so very much, then?” The question was accompanied with a painful blush, from the consciousness that the bloom of youth in which he had left her, had passed away forever. Selwyn sprang toward her and caught her hand. “Rose, my own dear Rose,” said he, with real feeling, “forgive me. No, you are not altered; but if you were, I should know your voice among a thousand.” “Ah, I know I have grown old, cousin,” said Rose, struggling to recover herself, “how could it be otherwise, when so many years have passed since we met.” “Well, Rosy, look at me! Has my age stood still, do you think? Look at the crow’s feet and the gray hair, and tell me if you love me the less for them. You would be the same to me, if you were twice as old as you are; for you see I have come back for no earthly reason but to marry you, unless your own consent is as hard to obtain now as your father’s was before.” “Why, your friends said you were married in London.” “No, not my _friends_, Rose. It must have been my _enemies_ who said that; but _you_ knew better. Didn’t I tell you I would never marry any one but you?” “Yes, fifteen years ago, Cousin Robert—but the promise might be outlawed by this time, for all I knew. You do not pretend to say that you thought my faith in your word would hold out, without even receiving a line from you the last nine years.” “Why not pretend to say it, coz, when I know it has. Deny it now if you can.” “But why didn’t you write to me, Robert?”