“Dear Sophie, how can you expect of me pity for others who have now none at all for myself—when I have made up my mind to be hanged or married I can do it; if hanging were the dish, I should not think of the horror, the agony, the death—my mind would leap straight through that dark, quick passage to the light! the joy! the immortality!” “Oh, Hagar! and you say that not reverently, but triumphantly! oh, Hagar! what a heart you have to break down. A young bit of a maiden, yet with no gentleness, no tenderness, no sympathy—a little, slight, dark creature, yet with the fire, courage, and fierceness of a young panther. Oh! Hagar, how much I fear for you!” Just at this moment a light rap was heard at the door; Sophie arose and opened it. It was a servant come to say that Mr. May was below stairs and requested to see Mrs. Withers. Sophie followed the messenger. She found Gusty waiting in the parlor. Sophie was not unacquainted with the secret that the poor fellow’s despair had betrayed to all his friends, but this was the first time, be it remembered, that he had visited the Hall since the destruction of his hopes. Sophie’s manner was unusually gentle and affectionate to him, so much so that poor Gusty whose heart was sadly suffering for sympathy, said to her suddenly at the close of their interview, and after all the arrangements relative to his mission had been agreed upon, “How much older are you than I, Sophie?” “Eight years,” answered Sophie, opening her large eyes. “Why?” “Nothing—it is too much, I suppose! but may be it is not, as I am sure I am a great deal taller and twice as broad shouldered, and sun-burnt and all that, so that I am sure I must look as old as you?” “What are you thinking of, Gusty?” “Be hanged if you do look more than a very gentle little girl after all, not half so self-sustained and womanly as Hagar!” “Why, Gusty?” “I mean, Sophie, will you marry me? I am very steady of my years—all to taking care of mother—and I shall behave myself better than you think for, indeed I shall.” “Why, Gusty!” “Sophie, you’ll think it strange after all that phrensy of mine for Hagar, that I now offer you my hand, a boy’s hand; but, Sophie, I always _did_ love you and like to stay with you, and now that Hagar has thrown me away, I feel weak, suffering, as if I wanted some one to love me protectingly, to nurse me, to pet me—you are the very one, Sophie! I am so lonesome, so miserable, feel so unnecessary in the world. I am first person singular, nominative case to nothing under the sun just now! I want some one to love so much! some dear gentle girl that will love me with all her heart and soul, and not feel jealous of this anguish I must suffer for the loss of Hagar. Come, Sophie, pity me—my manhood, strength, spirit, impetuosity is all melting out of me. I feel like a poor dog that has no owner!” “Your mother, Gusty.”