Many things, to be swiftly passed over in my history, occurred in those four years. One of these, the most important to me, happened a short time after Philip's departure for the North. It was a brief conversation with Fanny, and it took place upon the wayside walk at what they call the Battery, at the green Southern end of the town, where it is brought to a rounded point by the North and East Rivers approaching each other as they flow into the bay. To face the gentle breeze, I stopped and turned so we might look Southward over the bay, toward where, at the distant Narrows, Long Island and Staten Island seem to meet and close it in. "I don't like to look out yonder," said Fanny. "It makes me imagine I'm away on the ocean, by myself. And it seems so lonely." "Why, you poor child," replied I, "'tis a sin you should ever feel lonely; you do so much to prevent others being so." I turned my back upon the bay, and led her past the fort, toward the Broadway. "You see," said I, abruptly, glancing at her brown eyes, which dropped in a charming confusion, "how much you need a comrade." I remember I was not entirely unconfused myself at that moment, for inspiration had suddenly shown me my opportunity, and how to use it, and some inward trepidation was inseparable from a plunge into the matter I was now resolved upon going through. "Why," says she, blushing, and seeming, as she walked, to take a great interest in her pretty feet, "I have several comrades as it is." "Yes. But I mean one that should devote himself to you alone. Philip has Margaret; and besides, he is gone now, and so is Mr. Cornelius. And Tom will be finding a wife some day, and your parents cannot live for ever, and your friends will be married one after another." "Poor me!" says she, with a sigh of comic wofulness. "How helpless and alone you make me feel!" "Not so entirely alone, neither! There's one I didn't mention." "And that one, too, I suppose, will be running off some day." "No. He, like Tom, will be seeking a wife some day; perhaps sooner than Tom; perhaps very soon indeed; perhaps this very minute." "Oh, Bert!--What nonsense! Don't look at me so, here in the street--people will take notice." "What do I care for people? Let the fellows all see, and envy me, if you'll give me what I ask. What say you, dearest? Speak; tell me! Nay, if you won't, I'll make you blush all the more--I love you, I love you, I love you! Now will you speak?" "Oh, Bert, dear, at least wait till we are home!" "If you'll promise to say yes then." "Very well--if 'twill please you." "Nay, it must be to please yourself too. You do love me a little, don't you?" "Why, of course I do; and you must have known it all the time!" But, alas, her father's "yes" was not so easily to be won. I broached the matter to him that very evening (Fanny and I meanwhile having come to a fuller understanding in the seclusion of the garden); but he shook his head, and regarded me coldly.