"I may see her if I am dumb? Do not deny me this. I will not speak, but I must look at my little and dear angel when she is near."
He pleaded so ardently with lips and hands, and eager eyes, that Helen could not deny him, and when he had poured out his thanks she left him, feeling very tender toward the unhappy young lover, whose passion was so hopeless, yet so warm.
Amy was at breakfast in her room, sobbing and sipping, moaning and munching, for, though her grief was great, her appetite was good, and she was in no mood to see anything comical in cracking eggshells while she bewailed her broken heart, or in eating honey in the act of lamenting the bitterness of her fate.
Casimer would have become desperate had he seen her in the little blue wrapper, with her bright hair loose on her shoulders, and her pretty face wet with tears, as she dropped her spoon to seize his flowers,—three dewy roses, one a bud, one half and the other fully blown, making a fragrant record and avowal of the love which she must renounce.
"Oh, my dear boy! how can I give him up, when he is so fond, and I am all he has? Helen, uncle must let me write or go to mamma. She shall decide; I can't; and no one else has a right to part us," sobbed Amy, over her roses.
"Casimer will not marry, dear; he is too generous to ask such a sacrifice," began Helen, but Amy cried indignantly,—
"It is no sacrifice; I'm rich. What do I care for his poverty?"
"His religion!" hinted Helen, anxiously.
"It need not part us; we can believe what we will. He is good; why mind whether he is Catholic or Protestant?"
"But a Pole, Amy, so different in tastes, habits, character, and beliefs. It is a great risk to marry a foreigner; races are so unlike."