“Thus, then: A loves B—or rather, to be clearer, Aaron loves Belinda with a perfect passion; and he thinks, by reason of its great power, it _must_ win a response from her. But Belinda involuntarily turns from Aaron, and fixes her affection upon Charles, who does not in the least return it. Now, why should these cross purposes exist? They say that marriages are made in heaven. I wish the angel that has charge of them would look into this matter a little.” She spoke in a light, bantering manner, yet her voice quivered slightly. She stole an arch glance at her companion, and said— “There is my problem—solve it.” He eyed her closely, jealously. “Are you putting an imaginary case?” he asked. “Nay, answer my question before asking another.” “Well, then, yes! I _will_ tell you how this ought to end, and how it _shall_ end, too. Belinda will soon feel it to be unwomanly, indelicate, undignified, to leave her heart in the possession of one who undervalues the priceless treasure; she will withdraw it, and yield it up at the demand of the rightful owner—of him who _justly_ claims it because he prizes it above all treasures, and desires it above all possessions!” “You think so?” said Rosalie, averting her face, and bending down, and stroking her horse’s mane. “I _know_ so.” “How do you know it?” “Because it _ought_ to be so.” “Again—_why_?” “Because _man’s_ love is the conquering love! But now, tell me—were you putting an imaginary case?” “Yes, I was putting an imaginary case,” she said, in a low, quiet tone. She drew rein. “What is the matter, Rosalie? Are you tired? Has the ride been too much for you?” inquired the young man, checking his horse, and looking anxiously at her. “Yes, I think so,” she answered, wearily. “Rest awhile, and then we will go on.” “No—I must go home—the air is very chill,” she said, shivering. “And you are pale,” he observed, gazing at her with earnest, affectionate interest. She returned that gaze with a pensive, grateful glance, saying—“Indeed, I feel I ought to be very grateful to you for caring so much for a poor, sickly creature, like me. You in such fine health, too. I do not understand it. I thought every one preferred blooming girls; but you attach yourself to poor, pale me. Dear Robert, believe me, I am very, _very_ grateful for your love, however this may end. I _do_ wish I could be _more_ than grateful. Dear Robert, if I could give you my whole heart as easily as I give you this rose, I would do it.” And detaching a white rose from her bosom, she handed it to him. And they turned their horses’ heads, and went down the mountain path, towards home. CHAPTER XI. ROSALIE.