"Is it? Wait. Perhaps it will improve farther on. 'My name is Philip Rowe. I am twenty-six years of age, and I am an Englishman, born in Devonshire. I have a half share in a rich claim on a rich quartz reef. I love your daughter----'"
"O, O," she cried, trembling from happiness. "It's to my mother. And you're from Devonshire. Mother has friends in Devonshire. One in particular, that she has often talked of. I've never been there. Go on, Philip. 'I love your daughter.' Do you, do you, Philip?"
"Do I, my darling?" he said passionately. "Listen to my heart. What does it beat but Margaret, Margaret? I came here to find my life, and I have found her. I love you with all my soul. I never knew what a beautiful thing life was until I saw your dear face."
This was heaven to her to hear. Presently, "Go on, Philip, I love your daughter.'"
"'And she loves me.'"
"O, Philip, who told you? What are you doing, sir?"
"I am listening to your heart, My darling."
"And what does it say! As if it could speak! What does it say, sir?"
"I think I hear it. I think it beats for me."
So inexpressibly tender was his tone, that her arms crept round his neck, and she sighed, "It does, Philip; it does!"