“Attain a position, Mr. Sutherland—such a position as the prophetic voice in your heart foretells. Win fame! not for yourself, but for men and God! not for your own aggrandizement, but for the POWER to right the wronged, to raise the fallen, to deliver the oppressed, to redeem the evil, to speak with AUTHORITY the truth to men and before God! Labour, wait, struggle, for such a position, and, though no mother, sister, wife, or love, smile on your career, men and women will know it! God will bless it!” Mark Sutherland still remained buried in deep and silent thought upon her words. Oh, if _India_ had so spoken to him, so sympathized with his aspirations, so encouraged his flagging hopes and energies, what might he not have accomplished, even before this! But this child Rosalie was nothing, and yet she spoke words of high moment, and spoke them “as one having authority.” “You astonish me, Rosalie; you talk far beyond your years and sex; you really astound me.” “I wish I could convince you.” “You do, you do, my child. But, Rosalie, how is this? You must have reflected very much, for one of your tender years.” “I am not so young; I am seventeen.” “A venerable age, indeed. But, Rosalie, how is it that you have thought so much beyond girls of your age?” “Have I done so?” “Why, assuredly—do you not know that you have? Now tell me how it is.” “Well, if it is so as you say—for _I_ do not know and cannot judge of young people, having never had any young companions—I suppose it is because I have been always sickly, and have always led an isolated, meditative life; hearing in my secluded retreat only the loudest thunders of the distant great world of society, I have naturally thought most about its great successes, and how they were accomplished. I have watched from afar the career of living great men, and have secretly made unto myself idols like them. I have read with deep interest the lives of distinguished statesmen and heroes, particularly those who have struggled up from poverty and obscurity; that is the reason.” “Yet that is very unusual in so young and beautiful a girl. I cannot yet comprehend it—I can scarcely believe in it.” “The pleasures of childhood and girlhood were not for me—there was nothing left but books, and much thought over needlework, in solitary hours. Please do not give me undue credit; it is more mortifying than blame. I must tell you how it was I thought so much of your life. Nearly two years ago, after you made such a vast sacrifice to principle—giving up wealth, station, popularity, family, friends, love, esteem, _all_ for your ideas of duty—hero-worshipper that I was, I recognized in you the elements of which heroes are made, and”—— She blushed, and suddenly stopped, conscious of the indelicacy of praising him to his face. “Go on, dear Rosalie.” Still she remained silent and embarrassed. “Well, Rosalie, you saw, or rather you _thought_ you saw, in me the elements of heroism?”