“God bless you, dearest Rose!” burst from his lips with impassioned fervour. “But, my dear girl—my fairy, fragile girl—do you know what women in the far West have to encounter? hardships from which the most robust shrink; hardships from which the strong and beautiful India shrank; and will my pale, frail Rosalie dare them? and can she bear them?”
“India, with her glorious physique, is still a delicate daughter of the sun; she is like a gorgeous, brilliant exotic, that can bloom only in a luxurious conservatory; while I, with my wan face and fragile form, am yet a child of the wind—a wood-anemone, that only withered in a Southern hothouse—that will flourish and thrive in the wilderness.”
“Heaven grant it may be as you say, dear Rosalie! It is impossible for me to give you up, to leave you; yet when I think of all you may have to suffer in being my companion, my heart is filled with anxiety and trouble. What did you say, dearest? Your sweetest words hide under low tones, just as the sweetest violets lurk under thick shade. What were you murmuring?”
“Only that I should not suffer half as much in meeting anything with you, as I should—as I should”—
“Well, dearest?”
“In being left behind,” said Rosalie, dropping her head upon his shoulder, as he caught her to his heart, and exclaimed, in a sudden burst of emotion—
“You shall not be left behind, my darling! my darling! By all my hopes of earth and heaven, I will never, never part from you!”
For a moment her head had rested on his breast in peace, and then she began to grow restless and twisted herself out of his embrace.
“Where now?” he asked, rather impatiently.
She looked at him with a comic expression of countenance, and said: