She was looking very lovely, in her fresh white muslin morning dress, without any ornament, but her own soft brown ringlets, and the bright blush and smile lighted by happiness. “Here they are, sweetheart!” he said, gaily and fondly showing the flowers. “An elegant bouquet for the bride!” she exclaimed admiringly. “And a sweet little posy for you,” he said, placing the heartsease on her bosom. “_Il est a propos, n’est ce pas?_” “It is fit.” “_Oui! Comme il faut, Monsieur?_” “It is faultless.” “Do you mean to say you won’t talk French with me, Mark?” “I mean only to show you, as long as you speak it to me, that there is not a word or phrase in that fashionable and hackneyed language, that has not a shorter, stronger, and more expressive synonym in our own mother tongue. There is no language for true thought and strong feeling like our earnest English. But, my Rose! even English has no word to tell how much I love you—how dear you are to me! All last evening, occupied, monopolized as I was, sometimes for a moment I would forget you, and then your image would return to me with—how shall I say it?—how express it?—with such a thrill of life and joy as I never felt before; an emotion purer, higher, more blissful than I ever knew before. But, Rose! my rose! will this dream fade also? Must I wake, to find that you cannot go with me through the rough paths of life, up which my footsteps have to toil?” “No, Mark! No—unless you will it so. Believe in me, for I am true. ‘Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; and the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part me and thee,’” she said earnestly. There was earnest honour as well as deep affection in the broken words wherewith he blessed her, as he led her back into the parlour where all the family were now assembled. CHAPTER XV. DISCORDANCES. “But here upon this earth below, There’s not a spot where thou and I Together for an hour could breathe.”—_Byron._