“I will if—if I must.”
“You are changed,” persisted she—“you are grown either very proud or very indifferent.”
“I am neither, Helen—Mrs. Huntingdon. If you could see my heart—”
“You must be one,—if not both. And why Mrs. Huntingdon?—why not Helen, as before?”
“Helen, then—dear Helen!” I murmured. I was in an agony of mingled love, hope, delight, uncertainty, and suspense.
“The rose I gave you was an emblem of my heart,” said she; “would you take it away and leave me here alone?”
“Would you give me your hand too, if I asked it?”
“Have I not said enough?” she answered, with a most enchanting smile. I snatched her hand, and would have fervently kissed it, but suddenly checked myself, and said,—
“But have you considered the consequences?”
“Hardly, I think, or I should not have offered myself to one too proud to take me, or too indifferent to make his affection outweigh my worldly goods.”