“Oh, I am sorry to vex you, Gusty; indeed I am, dear Gusty, but I can’t get married, it is too funny!” “Do you not love me, then?” “Yes, indeed I do, Gusty.” “You _love_ me, dearest Rose?” “Yes, indeed I do, Gusty, the angels know I do!” “Then why not marry me, my sweet love?” “So! Gusty, I had just as soon marry you as any one else, only I do not like to marry one—” “Good heavens!—oh, gracious Providence, _hear her_!—she had as lief have me as _anybody else_!” roared Gusty, striking spurs to his horse and making him bound in the air. The girl grew pale, and hastily exclaimed, “Well, well! maybe if I was obliged to marry, I would _rather_ have you than anybody. Oh! don’t scare me so, Gusty! you make me weak all over, and—and—I feel like falling from my saddle!” And he saw, indeed, that his violence had nearly overwhelmed the delicate girl, who was trembling very much. He rode to her saddlebow, and said gently, “Rosalia, I beg your forgiveness; I have startled you by my rudeness; the fact is, Rosalia, I have been accustomed to Hagar, who, with reverence be it said, is as rough as an unripe persimmon, as sour as a lime, and as bitter as an aloe, and she has spoiled me for such gentle society as yours; now compose yourself, Rosalia, and hear me, and believe me when I say that if you refuse my hand—if you leave me here and go to the North—I—well! perhaps I shall not go mad, or blow my brains out, or break my heart, and die, but I shall be utterly wretched, and make every one miserable around me, I _know_ I shall! I begin to feel it now. So, Rosalia, I have to propose to you to break this matter to Sophie, or let me do it, and to beg you, if she shall see no improper haste in the project of our marriage, that you will accept me; Rosalia, you make me talk _so_ much, darling!—now, Rosalia, what do you say?” The girl paused, not in reflection, but in hesitation. “Dearest Rose, you give me so much pain. Rose! Rose!” “Do I? I did not mean to.” “Will you give a reply, Rose?” “Wait, Gusty, till I talk to Sophie; but, oh! no, I do not like to, either—it is too queer. You, Gusty, you may talk to her.” “Do you, do you say that, Rose! Tell me! tell me over again, Rose! I may ask your hand of Sophie and Wilde?” “Yes,” whispered Rose, the blood rising to the edges of her hair. “Oh, glory, hallelujah! God bless you, Rose! God Almighty bless you, Rose. Hey! stop, Lightning!” said he, suddenly jerking the bit, though in fact it was not the horse but Master Gusty that was bounding. “There, I am frightening you again, Rose! Be easy, Lightning!” “Won’t you ride on? Sophie will be waiting for us.”