“You must let me speak, Rosalie. We got your father this post-office. It is a poor living, but it keeps a roof over your head. You have never failed us you have always fulfilled our hopes. But the best years of your life are going, and your education and your nature have not their chance. Oh, I’ve not watched you all these years for nothing. I never meant to ask you to marry me. It came to me, though, all at once, and I know that it has been in my mind all these years—far back in my mind. I don’t ask you for my own sake alone. Your father may grow very ill—who can tell what may happen!”
“I should be postmistress still,” she said sadly.
“As a young girl you could not have the responsibility here alone. And you should not waste your life it is a fine, full spirit; let the lean, the poor-spirited, go singly. You should be mated. You can’t marry any of the young farmers of Chaudiere. ‘Tis impossible. I can give you enough for any woman’s needs—the world may be yours to see and use to your heart’s content. I can give, too”—he drew himself up proudly—“the unused emotions of a lifetime.” This struck him as a very fine and important thing to say.
“Ah, Monsieur, that is not enough,” she responded.
“What more can you want?”
She looked up with a tearful smile. “I will tell you one day, Monsieur.”
“What day?”
“I have not picked it out in the calendar.”
“Fix the day, and I will wait till then. I will not open my mouth again till then.”
“Michaelmas day, then, Monsieur,” she answered mechanically and at haphazard, but with an urged gaiety, for a great depression was on her.