When Ernest perceived this, he experienced what dear Mrs. -------- would call, in her very affecting third-volume style, “a tremendous revulsion of feeling,” under the influence of which he seated himself beside the weeping Rosebud, and taking her poor, cold, little hand, said-- “Emily, dearest Emily, what is the meaning of all this? Why! you are making yourself as miserable as you have made me! Come, treat me as a friend--a brother: confide in me. You must have some reason for what you are doing. Tell me”--and here, despite his best efforts, his voice faltered--“tell me--your happiness is ever my first consideration, and, even though it involve the ruin of my dearest hopes, I will strive to secure it--do you love another?” She did not speak; in fact, she could not just at that moment, by reason of the swollen state of the _globus-hystericus_ interfering with the action of the _larynx_--to write technically--or because of a choking sensation in the throat, if any reader prefers the colloquial style; but she had very expressive eyes, and they said “no” just as plainly, or rather as prettily, as her lips could have done. Ernest felt better; if she did not love anybody else, she must in time love him. Such affection as his must produce a return--he knew, he felt--but you see the line of argument, dear reader. Well, then, what was the hitch? Ernest pondered; at last, a bright idea occurred to him. The change in Emily had taken place since the previous day. Yes, _that_ was it! So he half muttered aloud, half thought to himself, “Some absurd, romantic, generous scruple about this confounded” (I am afraid he said confounded) “fortune.” He then continued aloud, rather in the tone in which he talked to the very little children in the Sunday-school,-- “Now listen to me, dear Emily. The happiness of my life, and, as I cannot but hope” (charitable hope!), “of yours also, is at stake. I once again tell you that I love you, as I have never loved before--as I shall never love again; that I love you with the one, deep, enduring passion of my lifetime. And I ask you--I adjure you--for both our sakes, to tell me, as truly as the fact will appear on that solemn day when the secrets of all hearts shall be known, do you return my affection?--Emily, dearest, do you love me?” Well, of course she could not say “No,” for that would have been false; she must say something, for, Sunday-school manner and all, Ernest had become rather awful at last, so there was nothing left for her but to say “Yes,”---which she did accordingly. That, in fact, settled the question; for, naturally, Ernest decided if she loved him, she must and should marry him; and then he elicited from her that it _was_ the fortune, upon which he observed--