We took our play to the Adams' to-night, and told Bud that it was nearly completed, but we were in some embarrassment how to conclude it. We had consequently come to consult her on the subject, begging at the same time she would give it her most careful attention, as her decision was of vital importance. We were alone. We had read the whole play through with the utmost care, till we came to the final sentence in our manuscript, where the hero declares his passion for the Unblown Rose. It runs thus:
Neer Je Haun. "Light of my soul, whose voice is sweeter than the murmur of the Ganges, whose name is incense to my nostrils, whose eyes are brighter than the fire-flies by night—my highest ambition is to be thy slave, my greatest hope to guard thee from harm, to bask in the radiance of thine eyes. For thee I would sacrifice all other earthly happiness. When I pray thee to share my humble fortunes, turn not away thy proud head; parch not my soul with scorn, though well I should deserve such a fate for my temerity."
Now turning to Bud, we asked her to decide what answer the lover should receive; should he be accepted or rejected?
"Oh, accepted, of course!" eagerly exclaimed Bud, her bright eyes kindling with sympathy for the ardent Hindoo.
"It is well!" we replied, and wrote down the maiden's answer.
"I will trust my life in thy hands from this day till death."
"Is that right?" we asked.
She said it was, though perhaps a little cold.
We then drew from our breast pocket one sheet of the manuscript she had not yet seen. It was the title of the play: