“Yes! yes! my angel Rose,” and they cantered on through the forest-path. It was the same forest-path leading from the village to the church so often mentioned in this story. They overtook Sophie Wilde and their party. Sophie was buried in thought; she was in fact just passing the spot where she had, eight years before, seen the apparition of the wanderer, and now passing the road for the last time, and under her peculiar circumstances, the fact was forcibly recalled to her mind. Rosalia paced up lovingly to her side, and kept there during her ride home. Soon after dinner Gusty May found an opportunity of taking Sophie aside and making known his wishes. His embarrassment under _all_ the circumstances of which _we_ are cognisant, you know, was very natural and amusing. Sophie Wilde (I love to call her Sophie Wilde) was not perhaps the person of all others to consult in such a case; it did, however, vaguely dawn upon her mind that a little delay might not be unadvisable in the proposed marriage of a youth of nineteen with a girl of fifteen and a half; so she said dreamily that she would “Talk with Captain Wilde.” Up shot Gusty, exclaiming, “‘_Talk with Captain Wilde!_’ ‘talk with Captain Wilde;’ yes! that’s it! that’s the tune! ‘talk with Captain Wilde.’ What’s Captain Wilde to do with it? I asked _you_, because she insisted you should be consulted, and you are her little mamma. Seems to me that you have quite unnecessarily elevated him to the throne. ‘Captain Wilde!’ he’s a great fellow, isn’t he? Captain Fiddlestick’s end! I should just like to hear _him_ object—I just _should_. Shouldn’t be surprised though if he didn’t. ‘Talk to Captain Wilde!’ oh! _de_-cidedly. _She_ said ‘Talk to Sophie,’ you say, ‘Talk to Captain Wilde,’ _he’ll_ ‘talk’ to Parson Buncombe; and while you are all ‘talk’-ing, my prospect of getting a pair of white kid gloves grows “‘Small by degrees and beautifully less!’” exclaimed Gusty, ranting up and down the piazza, and flinging his coat-tails about. “I was born under the lost pleiad! I _know_ I was! to be always crossed in love! to be hammered into a poet or something by hard blows! I be hanged if I will. I’m to be put in the still as roses are, and the essence of soul, the double extract of soul distilled from me by fire, while flesh and muscle, life and health shrivel up like rose leaves in the heat! No, I be hanged if I will. Cast me into the furnace and see if I don’t turn out to be gunpowder, and blow somebody up! or spirit-gas, and set some one on fire! _that’s_ all!” and blowing, he sat down. “Look here, my dear Gusty,” said our bride, “don’t talk nonsense. You have a long leave of absence; come! go with us North. You indeed have the best excuse; you may be said to be in duty bound to go, as our groomsman, and in that capacity you must constantly attend Rosalia, and who knows, you may be appointed to our ship; the set of officers is not yet complete.”