“No—certainly. We are agreed upon this axiom which you repeat so often: ‘Love does not speak enough.’ But, good Maria, make of love constancy: I would sooner give than receive.”
“They do not talk thus to me,” cried the brave woman, with impatience.
“It is still true, my dear and good mother,” answered Stein, taking and pressing the hands of old Maria, “we have a running account of affection, we two, but the balance is against me. God grant that I may some day be able to furnish the proof of my attachment and my gratitude!”
“It is very easy, Don Frederico, and I am about to demand it.”
“At once, my good Maria; and what is this proof? say quickly.”
“Remain with us; and to that end get married, Don Frederico. You inspire us with continual uneasiness in this living in the idea of your departure, and you would then realize the proverb, ‘Which is your country? That of my wife.’ ”
Stein smiled.
“Whom shall I marry? with whom, my good mother, with whom shall it be? With your linnet?”
Maria replied: “With her, who is in your heart an eternal spring. She is so beautiful and so graceful: she is so moulded to your habits that she could not live without you! And what would you do without her? You love each other like two turtles—this is seen in your eyes.”
“I am too old for her, Maria,” replied Stein, sighing and blushing in a manner to prove that, as to him at least, the old woman had spoken truly; “I am too old,” he repeated, “for a girl of sixteen years. My heart is an invalid, to whom I desire to accord a sweet and tranquil existence; I would not expose it to new wounds.”