“It is my misfortune that I cannot accept you, Robert. My reason is telling me all the time, just as any prudent old lady could tell me—that if I _could_ like you, I should have an enviable lot in life; not because you are wealthy, and all that, of course, Robert, but because I really do know you are—so good, so disinterested, so true, and because your dear mother and sisters are just like you, and I could love them as if they were my own relatives.” “In mercy, Rosalie, why do you talk to me so, if you never mean to accept me?” “Why, indeed? Because I cannot reject this kindness, for which I am indeed most sincerely grateful, in any other but the humblest manner, and with every circumstance to assure you, that I feel how much good I reject in rejecting you, Robert. Dear Robert, there is certainly destiny, as well as duty, in these matters; and, well as I like you, I could not love you enough to marry you, if my salvation depended on it; indeed I could not. I am not destined to so easy a life, Robert. I begin to have a foreshadowing that my lot will be a very rough one, Robert; that I shall not be left to bask in the sunshine, but shall have to face and weather the storm.” “You—you fragile snow-drop! What do you mean now? _You_ meet the storms of life! Has the Planters’ Own Bank broken, or have all the slaves on the plantation run off in a body?” “Neither one nor the other, Robert. And if I ‘rough it’ in the world, it will be my own free choice.” “I confess I do not understand you—except that you make me wretched; that is plain enough, but as to the rest, I am all in the dark.” “It is my own secret, Robert.” “One thing I do know; that is, you are too delicate for a rough life.” “Robert, there are many delicate natures that have been cherished, and nursed, and petted to miserable weakness and death. My flower garden has taught me that lesson.” “I should like to know how a flower garden could teach you a lesson like _that_!”