The other is bonny, and blithe, and true,
With honest face bronzed, and eyes of blue;
But the wealth of his heart is the only thing
He can give to me with the wedding ring.
Yes, both seem dying for love of me;
Well, if I choose one of them, which shall it be?”
Queenie Trevalyn looked up archly into the handsome, agitated face bending over her, and blushed deeply.
“Before I answer you, let me remind you that you are quite a stranger to us, Mr. Dinsmore; you have not chosen to make a confidant of any one concerning your personal history—from whence you came, or—or—your standing in the community in which you reside,” she murmured, sweetly.
“I am aware of that fact,” he answered, gloomily, dropping her hands dejectedly, while a heavy sigh trembled over his pale lips. “The truth is, I dreaded telling you, lest I should, perhaps, lose your friendship at first, then, at last, your love; but no! you are too good, too noble, pure and true to let wealth and position weigh—against—love.”
His words gave the girl something like a fright. She had counted upon this handsome, bearded adorer being a man of great wealth. She had even fondly hoped that he might be a prince, traveling in disguise—a personage of superior order. No wonder his words—which seemed to bid fair to scatter these delicious hopes—alarmed the girl whose sole ambition was wealth.