"I 'll inwent it for love's sake," says John, slipping his arm round her waist, and drawing her close to him; "and I 'll call you my dove, coz you see you 've got all the timidity and gentleness o' that lovely bird, and your voice is sweeter than the turtle's, I 'm sure." "O Captain, my woice is n't a nice woice now-a-days,--my woice went with the rest of my attractions when I was dethroned. I had a nice woice once. If we could have met then!" "My dove!" says John, "whatever your woice hes ben, I would n't hev it no sweeter than what it is now; it kerries me back to the years that hed hope in 'em,--the years when I was a boy, and in love." "Say no more," says the widow; "my heart already tells me that you love another,"--and she began to pout. "Lord bless us!" says John; "our boat is aground. I was so took up with you, Rose, that I did n't see she was driftin' down stream, and here we be, high and dry, and a storm a-comin' on; but you can't blame me so ha'shly, my dear Rose, as what I blame myself. Can you forgive me?" "Forgive you?" cries the widow, reproachfully. "Can you forget that I am an undertaker's daughter?" This speech did not convey any very clear meaning to the mind of John Chidlaw; but he attributed that to his own dulness, and as this struck him as being very great, somehow or other, though he could not tell how, he bowed his head in shamefaced silence. In spite of what he had said about being in love in his youth, the widow took great courage. He had said "our boat" instead of "my boat," and he had called her Rose,--her real name,--how should he know that? She could not tell, but somehow she augured favorably from it; besides, they were aground, and must wait for the rising of the tide, and in the intervening time who knew what might be done? She would tell all her story; and its pathos, she fancied, must subjugate the most obdurate heart. "Yes," she renewed, "I am, or rather was, an undertaker's daughter, with the most brilliant prospects before me that ever allured a wile wagabond of a fortune-hunter, for such he was who stole me from the satin pillers my young head had played among, and give me a piller of husks, and cold wittles, and wulgar lodgings." "The wretch!" cries John. "The wile wretch! if he yet lived, I would wow myself to wengeance!" And, like Jacob of old, he lifted up his voice and wept. "Don't take on so," says the widow. "I would not cause you a moment's sorrow for the world." "To think any man should have abused the like o' you!" says John. "But surely he never laid wiolent hands ont' you? I think I shall lose my senses if you say that." "Then I won't say it," says the widow, tenderly stroking his hand. "That touch is wivifying," says John; "so, dear Rose, you may go on and tell the wust on 't."