“And so she is, Cousin Robert!” exclaimed Rose. “She is before you, and yet you do not know her. Am I altered so very much, then?”
The question was accompanied with a painful blush, from the consciousness that the bloom of youth in which he had left her, had passed away forever.
Selwyn sprang toward her and caught her hand.
“Rose, my own dear Rose,” said he, with real feeling, “forgive me. No, you are not altered; but if you were, I should know your voice among a thousand.”
“Ah, I know I have grown old, cousin,” said Rose, struggling to recover herself, “how could it be otherwise, when so many years have passed since we met.”
“Well, Rosy, look at me! Has my age stood still, do you think? Look at the crow’s feet and the gray hair, and tell me if you love me the less for them. You would be the same to me, if you were twice as old as you are; for you see I have come back for no earthly reason but to marry you, unless your own consent is as hard to obtain now as your father’s was before.”
“Why, your friends said you were married in London.”
“No, not my friends, Rose. It must have been my enemies who said that; but you knew better. Didn’t I tell you I would never marry any one but you?”
“Yes, fifteen years ago, Cousin Robert—but the promise might be outlawed by this time, for all I knew. You do not pretend to say that you thought my faith in your word would hold out, without even receiving a line from you the last nine years.”
“Why not pretend to say it, coz, when I know it has. Deny it now if you can.”