“Not yet, not yet,” said the young man, detaining her as she rose. “My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling—every thought in life except my love for you—have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd, no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home—a heart and home—yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer.” “What does this mean!” faltered the young lady. “It means but this—that when I left you last, I left you with the firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved you so far right. Such power and patronage—such relatives of influence and rank—as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England’s richest county, and by one village church—mine, Rose, my own—there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is _my_ rank and station now, and here I lay it down.” * * * * * “It’s a trying thing waiting supper for lovers,” said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket handkerchief from over his head. Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation. “I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,” said Mr. Grimwig, “for I began to think I should get nothing else. I’ll take the liberty, if you’ll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be.” Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example being contagious, was followed both by the doctor and Mr. Brownlow. Some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it originally in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this downright scandal, he being young and a clergyman. “Oliver, my child,” said Mrs. Maylie, “where have you been, and why do you look so sad? There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What is the matter?” It is a world of disappointment—often to the hopes we most cherish, and hopes that do our nature the greatest honour. Poor Dick was dead! CHAPTER L. THE JEW’S LAST NIGHT ALIVE.