‘It’s just what I am doing, dear Maggie. It was here they interchanged their vows; a different pair, indeed, though not altogether so superior, since to my mind you excel Anne Hathaway as much as I fall short of her marvellous bridegroom. That I am no Shakespeare is very true; yet it seems to me, Maggie, that when I say, “I love you,” even he could have said nothing more true and deep. I love you, I love you, I love you—do you hear me?’ continued the young man passionately. ‘You frighten me, Willie,’ answered Maggie in trembling tones. ‘And then it is so foolish, since you know, that even if I said—what you would have me say—it could be of no use.’ ‘But you think it, you _think_ it? That is all I ask,’ urged the other earnestly. ‘If matters were not as they are; if I got Mr. Erin’s consent; if I had sufficient means to offer you a home—not indeed worthy of you, for then it must needs be a palace—but comfort, competence, you would not say “Nay?” Dearest Maggie, my own dear darling Maggie, give me hope. “The miserable,” as Shakespeare tells us, “have no other medicine:” and I am very, very miserable; give me hope, the light of hope.’ ‘It would be a will-of-the-wisp, Willie.’ ‘No matter; I would bless it if it led me to my grave. If I had it, I could work, I could win fortune, even fame perhaps. You doubt it? Try me, try me!’ he continued vehemently, ‘and if after some time, a little, little time, no harvest comes of it, and my brain proves barren, why, then I will confess myself a dreamer: only in the meantime be mine in spirit; do not promise yourself to another; let us say a year; well, then, six months; you can surely wait six months for me, Maggie?’ ‘It would be six months of delusion, Willie.’ ‘Let it be so; a fool’s paradise, but still for me a paradise. I have not had so many happy hours that fate should grudge me these. I know I am asking a strange thing; still I am not like those selfish lovers who, being in the same pitiful case with me as to means, exact, like dogs in the manger, vows of eternal fidelity from those whom they will, in all probability, be never in a position to wed. I ask you not for your heart, Maggie, but for the loan of it; for six months’ grace, probation. If I fail to show myself worthy of you—if I fail to make a name—or rather to show the promise of making it within that time, then I return the loan. I do not say, as was doubtless said by him who sat here before me, “Be my wife!” I only say, “For six months to come, betroth yourself to no other man.” Come, Maggie, Frank Dennis is not so very pressing.’