"My book," said Elsie; "what book?"
"Your poems—I know they are beautiful—Peggy told me about them; and we will have them brought out in the very best style, and I will be so proud to think what a genius I have got for my own darling."
Elsie sighed deeply; tried to speak, but could not. It was a good sign, Mr. Brandon thought—a sigh was ten times more encouraging than a smile. He knew he had hit upon the right thing when he had spoken of her poems; it was wonderful how discerning love had made him.
"You are mistaken, Mr. Brandon," said she with difficulty, scarcely daring to raise her eyes to the level of his waistcoat; "I am no genius, and my poems are not worth printing—poor, crude, empty productions. I believe I can make caps and bonnets, but that is all that I can do."
"That is only your opinion of yourself. But with my will, you shall make no more frippery of the kind. It is quite beneath you."
"It is not beneath me to earn an honest livelihood."
"No; but it was cruel to make you have to do it. I have been so sorry for you all these months, when Miss Melville told me how you were employed."
"Do not say anything more about your pity for me; it pains me."
"It is not pity; it is love," said he, stoutly.
"Love born of pity; that will die when—I mean if—but it cannot be; I never can be your wife—the most unsuitable, the most wrong thing that I could do. Do not speak any more about it."