“Dearest Elsie, let us go forth from here. The light, the glare, the crowd, the noise here is insufferable. Let us go forth in the fresh air under the light of the holy stars. Come, love! My heart hungers, faints, to press you to itself. Come, love!” And opening a leaf of the bay window, he led her forth. It was a mild, clear, beautiful starlight night for the season, yet the air was chill, and Elsie was lightly clad. He looked at her and glanced around. The lighted window of a sitting room in the angle of the building showed that apartment to be vacant. He led her there. It was one of those small, conical wainscoted parlors so common in old houses. A fine fire was burning in the chimney, and a little old-fashioned green settee drawn up on one side of the fireplace. The room had an air of delightful snugness, comfort, and repose. He led her to this sofa and seated himself beside her, opened his arms, and whispered: “Come to my bosom, my own soul’s love!” and folded her closely there. “Elsie, my pure, fresh, delicate, elegant Elsie, can you go with me indeed to share my lot of poverty and struggle? Oh, Elsie! if you do, will you never repent? Oh, Elsie! do you know what poverty is? Born and brought up in luxury and wealth, do you know what poverty is? Oh, Elsie, my little idealist, there is no poetry in poverty. Oh, Elsie, my little epicurienne, every sense is shocked and tortured in poverty. You see unsightly things, you hear discordant sounds, you come in contact with roughness, you partake of coarse food; oh, Elsie! ideality is wounded and saddened, sense is shocked, and love itself, perhaps, revolted!” “Never! oh, never!” she said fervently. “Oh, Elsie! my bright, beautiful Elsie! my delicate, elegant Elsie! I am worse than an executioner to marry you. I feel it, and yet I shall do it. God knows that I will have you, and let the future take care of itself!” he said, pressing her strongly to his bosom.