But now he must acquiesce in his mother’s entreaty for his presence by the couch of his dying father. He must go, and there was no telling how long he might be obliged to stay, paralysis was such an uncertain disease. The invalid might die before he reached Germany, or he might linger for months. He might even get well again. Florian was deeply grieved, and most anxious to go to his father; but the pain of leaving Viola tore his jealous heart like a keen knife. She was so capricious that she might forget him while he was gone. She might find some one she loved better and throw him over, as she had once gayly threatened. The anguish of the thought almost took his breath away. He determined on a bold step. He would entreat her to consent to a quiet marriage and go abroad with him. “If she loves me half as well as I love her she will be willing to do as I wish, rather than face a separation of uncertain duration,” he said to himself, and plunged boldly into the subject, encouraged by the dismay and sympathy with which she received his news. “You will miss me a little, Viola, my darling?” he cried, eagerly, when he saw the bright eyes softened with the dew of tears. “More than a little, dear Florian!” she cried, warmly, for her really tender heart was softened by his grief. It pained her, too, to have him go away like this. There was no one else whose society was half so agreeable. Taking quick advantage of her tender admissions, he plunged into the subject nearest his heart, begging her to marry him tonight or tomorrow and go with him abroad. Viola was speechless at first with astonishment. When she caught her breath, she refused promptly. “I thought you pretended to love me,” he cried, reproachfully. “So I do, Florian, very dearly, but not enough to marry you offhand without a _trousseau_.” “Bother the _trousseau_! You would order it from Paris, anyway, so you can get it just as easily when we go over.” “I am not ready to be married yet, Florian, _trousseau_ or no _trousseau_. I don’t want to be married so young.” “But, darling, how long do you expect me to wait?” “Until I choose to name the day, sir, and if you get too impatient, you are welcome to take back your freedom,” saucily. “Oh, Viola, I should never wish to do that!” he groaned, clasping her little jeweled hand and pressing his hot lips upon it while he continued: “Viola, I may be absent for months, and I shall go mad with jealousy of the fortunate men who will be near you, who can feast their eyes on your beauty and hear your sweet voice and rippling laughter. Oh, are you sure, quite sure, that your love will last while I am gone, that you will be true to your promise?” “If you can not trust my love, if you are beginning to doubt me already, we had better break off now!” she cried, spiritedly. “My beautiful love, how can you torture me so when I am already so unhappy?” groaned Florian.