“I don't mind the thorns if I get the rose at last, and I still hope I may, some ten years hence,” said this persistent suitor, quite undaunted by the prospect of a “long wait.”
“I think it is rather hard to be loved whether I like it or not,” objected Rose, at a loss how to make any headway against such indomitable hopefulness.
“But you can't help it, nor can I so I must go on doing it with all my heart till you marry, and then well, then I'm afraid I may hate somebody instead,” and Mac spoilt the pen by an involuntary slash of his knife.
“Please don't, Mac!”
“Do which, love or hate?”
“Don't do either go and care for someone else; there are plenty of nice girls who will be glad to make you happy,” said Rose, intent upon ending her disquiet in some way.
“That is too easy. I enjoy working for my blessings, and the harder I have to work, the more I value them when they come.”
“Then if I suddenly grew very kind, would you stop caring about me?” asked Rose, wondering if that treatment would free her from a passion which both touched and tormented her.
“Try and see.” But there was a traitorous glimmer in Mac's eyes which plainly showed what a failure it would be.
“No, I'll get something to do, so absorbing I shall forget all about you.”