‘Oh, Myles!’ said she, at last, in a very low voice. He bit his lip till the blood came, at that sound; the most maddening in its mingled sweetness and bitterness, he had ever heard. ‘I suppose I gave you the right to say that,’ she said, ‘and to demand an answer too. You put it tersely, certainly. As you speak, I can see the very life rising before me that you picture.’ ‘And yourself in it!’ said he, still with a sneer, though he would have given the world to ask her to forgive him. ‘No. You forget something,’ she replied, walking to the window, while he still leaned against the mantelpiece. ‘You made it all hard and sordid. You forgot the very “ennobling” that began the discussion. I _could_ fancy myself in such a home--a working-man’s wife--but to become that, I must love that man; and in the life you described there was no love. The man I loved, be he workman or prince, must be a gentleman--not a brute.’ ‘Ah! and supposing you met this working-man--or whoever he might be?’ suggested Myles, in a calm, restrained kind of voice. ‘If I met him, and if I loved him, and he loved me, and asked me to marry him, I would say “yes;” and I would love him, and serve him faithfully to the end of my life.’ The words fell softly and gently, almost timorously, as if she hesitated to speak of such a thing; and yet with a certain gentle firmness which said that they were no sentimental verbiage, but expressed the steadfast feeling of a steadfast heart. But each word was like a drop of liquid fire in the young man’s veins. She seemed suddenly to be close beside him--a possibility, a thing he might dream of--and fifty thousand times higher and farther off, and more impossible to him than ever. How could _he_ ever hope to bend that heart to love him? The very thought was insanity. He mastered his emotion, and walked up to her. She turned, but did not look at him. ‘I beg your pardon, most humbly,’ said he. ‘It is granted freely. I dare say it has been good for me; it has reduced my vague theories to the language of common sense. I had no right to reproach you with the faults of your class, and expect nothing but milk and honey from your lips in return. We understand each other. Oh, but yours is a biting tongue! It cuts like a knife.’ ‘It forgot itself when it turned against _you_. But, remember, your words had roused me. You made me blush for my own “vague theories,” as you call them. If you could not have said what you did, to any other workman, do you suppose I could have spoken so to any other young lady?’ ‘No, no. I suppose not,’ said she, but her face was still downcast. The glance which he at last received wavered almost timidly. She resumed her seat and her work, saying, ‘And you will think of what I have said?’ ‘I will--seriously. I believe you are right, but the thing was too wonderful for me. I could not attain unto it--all at once.’