“And ever will!” said the young man. “The mental agony I have suffered during the last two days wrings from me the undisguised avowal to you of a passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I have lightly formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set as firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman. I have no thought, or view, or hope, in life beyond her; and if you oppose me in this great stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to the wind. Mother, think better of this, and of me, and do not disregard the warm feelings of which you seem to think so little.” “Harry,” said Mrs. Maylie, “it is because I think so much of warm and sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded. But we have said enough, and more than enough, on this matter just now.” “Let it rest with Rose, then,” interposed Harry. “You will not press these overstrained opinions of yours so far as to throw any obstacle in my way?” “I will not,” rejoined Mrs. Maylie; “but I would have you consider——” “I _have_ considered!” was the impatient reply,—“I have considered for years—considered almost since I have been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged, as they ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them vent, which can be productive of no earthly good? No! Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me.” “She shall,” said Mrs. Maylie. “There is something in your manner which would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother,” said the young man, anxiously. “Not coldly,” rejoined the old lady; “far from it.” “How then?” urged the young man. “She has formed no other attachment?” “No, indeed,” replied his mother; “you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already.” “What I would say,” resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, “is this: Before you stake your all on this chance,—before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope, reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose’s history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision,—devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic.” “What do you mean?” “That I leave to you to discover,” replied Mrs. Maylie. “I must go back to Rose. God bless you!” “I shall see you again to-night?” said the young man, eagerly. “By and by,” replied the lady; “when I leave Rose.” “You will tell her I am here?” said Harry. “Of course,” replied Mrs. Maylie. “And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her—you will not refuse to do this, mother?” “No,” said the old lady; “I will tell her that,” and pressing her son’s hand affectionately, she hastened from the room.