Accordingly, being aware that Mrs. Colville had usually breakfasted in her own room since her illness, and seldom made her appearance in the drawing-room till about twelve o’clock, Ernest (as soon as he had finished his breakfast, and written two or three business letters, which were fertile in mistakes and erasures, seeing that his hand had written them while his mind was “far away”) walked down to the cottage, let himself in, and without announcement made his way into the drawingroom, as he had often done before, where, opening the door, he found, as he had fondly hoped to do, the Rosebud “blooming alone;” only that she was not blooming at all, but looking especially pale and washed out, by reason of the tempestuous night she had passed. Not but that the storm of feeling which had swept over her maiden soul, and left its traces behind, had added a depth and (if we may use the term) pathos to her beauty, which it wanted previously. She turned, if possible, still more pale as he entered; then, by a strong exercise of self-control, she strove, with tolerable success, to receive him in her usual manner. After a few commonplace inquiries and responses had passed between them, Emily, by a great effort, felicitated him on his accession of fortune. He smiled mournfully. “Do not congratulate me, Emily,” he said: “it is a vast and fearful responsibility. My career would have been a simpler and happier one without it; but it is God’s will to call me to a more prominent position, and I must not shrink from the cares and duties it will impose upon me.” He paused, then with a forced smile, which most ineffectually concealed his agitation> continued, “I should make but a poor advocate, I fear; for here am I setting forth all the evils and difficulties of my new position, when my object in coming here--an object in the attainment of which the whole happiness of my existence is centered--is to ask you to share it.” He then in a few simple, truthful, and therefore eloquent words, told her of his deep affection for her, and of his earnest desire to do what mortal might, to guard her from, or to mitigate, all the sorrows which more or less fall to the lot of each of us, confident that, in striving to provide for her happiness, he should insure his own. Emily heard him to the end without interruption, and, save that she grew paler, and that her features assumed a more, fixed and immovable expression, she evinced no sign of being in the slightest degree affected by his appeal. When he had concluded, she thanked him for the compliment he had paid her, but informed him that, although she should always regard him in the light of a dear and valued friend, and hoped he would, not deprive her of a privilege she so highly appreciated, yet that she could never become anything more to him than a friend--in fact, she decidedly and unequivocally refused him.