"Rose," exclaimed the doctor, passionately seizing her hand, "I will not ask you to love me. I will be satisfied if you will allow me to love you."
Poor Rose, none knew better than herself how eloquently the heart may plead; and because she knew this, because only to the voice of the loved one would the chords of her heart vibrate, did she turn away from that pleading voice and those brimming eyes.
For a long time Rose sat with her face buried in her hands after the doctor left her. It was hard so to repay such trust. Could he only be her brother—her counselor—but no—her path in life must be solitary.
Would the cloud never roll away?
Must it always be so?
Would Vincent never come to claim her?
Would a life of purest rectitude never meet its reward?
Would the world's scornful "Magdalena" be her earth-baptism?
Would the sweet fount of her boy's life be turned to bitterness?
Would he grow up to blush at his mother's name?