Gusty rode by the side of Rosalia Aguilar—Rosalia was in one of her softest moods, and tears and smiles and blushes chased each other over her cheeks. She was thinking of “dearest Sophie,” and sympathizing with her happiness. Gusty was sighing like the wind in the main-sail. His mother’s invitation, backed by his own eloquence, had been inefficient in persuading Rosalia to remain in the neighborhood. “No, dearest Gusty,” she had said, “I should love so much to have you all with me; it grieves me to part with any of you, but you know, Gusty, that I must mind what Sophie says, and Sophie says that I must go with _her_; besides, as I cannot stay with all, I prefer to stay with Sophie and with Captain Wilde, who loves me also.” “See here, Rosalia, I—I—I—” “Don’t cry, Gusty, don’t cry—I will write to you every week, and can’t you come and see me?” “_Cry!_ am _I_ crying?—it’s—it’s the wind blowing in my eyes that makes them water—pshaw! fiddle-de-dee! _me_ cry, indeed!—but, Rosalia—stop—don’t ride so fast; let the folks get along before.” “Why?” “Oh! because—because—because it will tire the _horse_, you know, poor fellow.” “Oh, will it?” said Rosalia, reining up, and falling into a walk. “Yes, to be sure it will, walk him slow,—there!” and then he rode up close to the side of Rosalia, and said, “Rose, stop, little darling,” and she stopped, and turned her gentle face towards him. “Rose, look at me, darling,” and she looked straight in his face, with her large innocent eyes. “How do you like me, altogether, Rose?” “Oh! so much, so dearly, you _know_ I do, Gusty!” “Ah, my seraph!—but, Rose, could you _love_ me?” “Could I, Gusty? Why, I _do_ love you dearly.” Then he sank his voice to a low whisper, and said, “But, loving darling! you love _everybody_!—Raymond and Augustus included.” “But I love you better than them, Gusty—oh, ever so much better. You know I have known you all my life, and never knew them until last week; so good as they are, dear Gusty, and much as I love them, I love _you_ the most!” “Love! love! love! Ah, my little angel, I am afraid you do not love me as I would have you. Do you love me well enough to _marry_ me—now—soon? My pay is enough to support us, and mother has consented. Sophie has a good opinion of me, and—and—well! what do you say, my Rosalia?” She was smiling and blushing. “Well, Rosalia?” “Why, it would be too curious! too queer! so funny. Sophie would laugh at us, and all the girls would make fun of us. You know I am nothing but a child yet—but oh! I know you are only joking.” “As the Lord in heaven hears me speak, I never was more in earnest in my life.” “Oh! no, Gusty! not in earnest! I do hope not in earnest.” “As the Lord lives I am, Rosalia—come, Rosalia! I see you will not drive me to despair—you will give me your hand, and instead of going North, you will just cosily settle down here, with mother. Come, put your hand in mine, and I will take that for yes!”