“It is an awfully important visit to me. I could not feel myself independent, and able to secure your comfort and little Christie's, without coming to the lady, the only lady I ever saw, that—oh, Mrs. Staines—Rosa—who could see you, as I have done—mingle his tears with yours, as I have done, and not love you, and long to offer you his love?”
“Love! to me, a broken-hearted woman, with nothing to live for but his memory and his child.”
She looked at him with a sort of scared amazement.
“His child shall be mine. His memory is almost as dear to me as to you.”
“Nonsense, child, nonsense!” said she, almost sternly.
“Was he not my best friend? Should I have the health I enjoy, or even be alive, but for him? Oh, Mrs. Staines—Rosa, you will not live all your life unmarried; and who will love you as I do? You are my first and only love. My happiness depends on you.”
“Your happiness depend on me! Heaven forbid—a woman of my age, that feels so old, old, old.”
“You are not old; you are young, and sad, and beautiful, and my happiness depends on you.” She began to tremble a little. Then he kneeled at her knees, and implored her, and his hot tears fell upon the hand she put out to stop him, while she turned her head away, and the tears began to run.
Oh! never can the cold dissecting pen tell what rushes over the heart that has loved and lost, when another true love first kneels and implores for love, or pity, or anything the bereaved can give.