“Because man’s love is the conquering love! But now, tell me—were you putting an imaginary case?”
“Yes, I was putting an imaginary case,” she said, in a low, quiet tone.
She drew rein.
“What is the matter, Rosalie? Are you tired? Has the ride been too much for you?” inquired the young man, checking his horse, and looking anxiously at her.
“Yes, I think so,” she answered, wearily.
“Rest awhile, and then we will go on.”
“No—I must go home—the air is very chill,” she said, shivering.
“And you are pale,” he observed, gazing at her with earnest, affectionate interest.
She returned that gaze with a pensive, grateful glance, saying—“Indeed, I feel I ought to be very grateful to you for caring so much for a poor, sickly creature, like me. You in such fine health, too. I do not understand it. I thought every one preferred blooming girls; but you attach yourself to poor, pale me. Dear Robert, believe me, I am very, very grateful for your love, however this may end. I do wish I could be more than grateful. Dear Robert, if I could give you my whole heart as easily as I give you this rose, I would do it.” And detaching a white rose from her bosom, she handed it to him.
And they turned their horses’ heads, and went down the mountain path, towards home.