"Dora, I have not dared, as you fear that I have, to fancy that you cared for me. A moment ago, I should not have dared to ask you as I now do; and remember, Dora, that I ask for the solemn truth,—do you love me?"
Dora tore away her hand indignantly, and attempted to rise. She had not spoken, or looked at him. Over the pale face of the lover shot a gleam of triumph. But he only said,—
"Dora, it will not be like you to leave me in this way. It is unjust and untrue."
"It is you who are unkind and ungenerous," said the girl passionately.
"Why, Dora? Why is it ungenerous to ask for a confession of your love, when I have already told you that all my heart is in your hands?"
"You fancied that I-that I-liked you; and you knew I did not want to go home, and you pitied me: and I won't have it, sir. I do not need pity, and I do not"—
Her voice died away, killed by the falsehood she could not speak. Mr. Burroughs no longer pressed for an answer to the question he had asked, but grasped at a new argument.
"Pity and kindness!" sadly repeated he. "Dora, if you only knew how much more I stand in need of your pity than you of mine, if you only knew what kindness your life has already done mine, you would not treat me in this manner."
"You need my pity!" exclaimed Dora, forgetting herself, and turning to look at him in nave astonishment; "and for what?"
"For a purposeless and weary life; for an empty heart and a corroded faith," said her lover bitterly; "for an indifference to men, amounting almost to aversion; for a trifling estimate of women, amounting almost to contempt; for wasted abilities and neglected opportunities,—for all these, Dora, I need your pity, and have a right to claim it: for it is only since I loved you that I have recognized my own great needs and deficiencies. Complete the work you have unconsciously begun, dearest. Reverse the fairy fable, and let the beautiful princess come to waken with her kiss the slothful prince, who else might sleep forever."