“How, Mr. Rock,” she asked, rising and standing before him, “how can you ask me to marry you, for I suppose that is what you mean, when you throw my poverty—and the rest—in my teeth? I think, Mr. Rock, that you would do well to go back to Mrs. Morton, or the minister’s widow who was born a lady, and to leave me in peace.” “Oh, don’t be angry with me,” he said, with something like a groan; “you know that I did not mean to offend you. Why should I offend you when I love you so, and want to win you? I wish that I had bitten out my tongue before I said that, but it slipped in with the rest. Will you have me, Joan? Look here: you are the first that ever I said a sweet word to, and that ought to go some way with a woman; and I would make you a good husband. There isn’t much that you shall want for if you marry me, Joan. If any one had told me when I was a youngster that I should live to go begging and craving after a woman in this fashion, I’d have said he lied; but you have put me off, and pushed me aside, and given me the slip, till at length you have worked me up to this, and I can’t live without you—I can’t live without you, that’s the truth.” “But I am afraid you will have to, Mr. Rock,” said Joan more gently, for the tears which trembled in Samuel’s light blue eyes touched her somewhat; and after all, although he repelled her, it was flattering that any man should value her so highly: “I do not love you.” His chin dropped upon his breast dejectedly. Presently he looked up and spoke again. “I did not expect that you would,” he said: “it had been too much luck for a miserable sinner. But be honest with me, Joan—if a woman can—and tell me, do you love anybody else?” “Not a soul,” she answered, opening her brown eyes wide. “Who is there that I should love here?” “Ah! that’s it,” he answered, with a sigh of relief: “there is nobody good enough for you in these parts. You are a lady, however you were born, and you want to mate with your own sort. It is no use denying it: I have watched you, and I’ve seen how you look down upon us; and all I’ve got to say is:—Be careful that it does not bring you into trouble. Still, while you don’t love anybody else—and the man you do love had better keep out of my way, curse him!—there is hope for me. Look here, Joan: I don’t want to press you—take time to think it over. I’m in no hurry. I could wait five years if I were sure of getting you at last. I dare say I frightened you by my roughness: I was a fool; I should have remembered that it is all new to you, though it is old enough for me. Listen, Joan: tell me that I may wait awhile and come again,—though, whether you tell me or not, I shall wait and I shall come, while there is breath in my body and I can find you out.”