"Don't say so, Rose," replied Heriot.
This sounded strange in both their ears, as he had. never simply called her "Rose" before; yet the implied familiarity was not without its novelty and charm.
"Why may I not say so?" she asked.
"It is an old superstition of our Scottish sailors that the bells of wrecks and sunken ships are rung by mysterious hands at the bottom of the sea, to announce storms and disasters."
"Ah, but you Scots are so superstitious; you live in a land of omens and ghosts, predictions and dreams, even in these fast railway times."
"Yet I would that we were in Scotland now," said Heriot, with a sigh, as he thought of the doubts and clouds that veiled the future.
"We?" repeated Rose, inquiringly, while peeping from her hood and shawl, so that the light of the binnacle lamp fell full on her sweet young face, and very beautiful the dark-eyed girl looked.
"Yes, we," reiterated Heriot, whose heart was rushing to his head as he held, unresisted, her plump little hands in his. "I wish to speak with you, Rose, to—to—I have so long desired—do you—do you care for me Rose, dear Rose?"
"Care for you!" she repeated, faintly.
"Can you love me, dear, dear Rose, as I love you?"