He laid one hand—it was very cold—gently on hers. “I do,” he said. “I know you, darling, better than you know yourself; even if you were willing,—as you will not be, once this mood has passed—I would not condemn you to a life you are not strong enough to live. Why, the woman who cleans your house, Pinkie, is my friend, the sister-in-law of the man who works beside me, in my father’s shop. Could you welcome her to your house, or visit her in hers? or, rather, _would_ you do it?” “I’ll tell you who would, and could, too,” said Pinkie, with sparkling eyes. “That Rolf girl you were walking with yesterday.” Louis made no reply. He looked inquiringly at the pretty, angry face, and waited for further information, which was not long in coming. “I heard you were engaged to her,” said Pinkie, “and I think it is a very good thing; both in the same station of life, and all that; no wonder you won’t give up ‘Prices’ while she’s there.” “There is only one woman in the world for me, Rosalie,” said Louis sternly. “Don’t pretend to think anything else.” He was worn with resisting temptation, and stunned by this sudden veering about of the wind, and his patience was almost gone. But for his thorough knowledge that a marriage between them was an utter impossibility, he would have caught her in his arms, and kissed her into a knowledge of her own mind, he told himself; but no, her kisses were the unclaimed property of some good man, _he hoped_, or tried to hope; and Louis would rob no one. Pinkie looked in his face for a moment, then began again to sob broken-heartedly. He tried to leave her, he even walked as far as the door; then, turning, came swiftly back to her side. “Darling,” he said, “will you marry me now? as I am? I will make things as easy for you as I can, trust me for that; you need not live at ‘Prices;’ I could take care of you even now, and, once these hard times are over, we could be very comfortable. Will you marry me _now_, Pinkie?” Over the girl’s heart swept a swift revulsion of feeling, a sudden recoil from the bare ugliness of the life which Louis called comfortable. She had not been prepared for this when she set herself “to lure this tassel gentle back again;” this shoemaker who treated her so consistently as his inferior. For a moment, Pinkie felt that she quite hated him. “Will you, darling?” he said again, and Pinkie raised her head, looked him full in the eyes, and answered,— “Marry a shoemaker! No, certainly not.” He turned away, he walked steadily to the door and down the stairs; she ran to the window, and watched him down the moonlit street, but he never looked back: and when the last echo of his footsteps had died away, the poor, lonely, spoiled child flung herself face downwards on the floor, and cried in good earnest. CHAPTER VII. “THESE, THROUGH THEIR FAITH, RECEIVED NOT THE PROMISE.”