"What may your name be?" says John, seizing both her hands and gazing tenderly in her face.
"Why do you ask? I 'm but a transient wisitor to your boat; you can't have no interest in me; and, besides, my name is hateful to me."
"But I must call you somethin'!"
"Well, then, inwent a name. My maiden name reminds me of the royal hours when my father's position gave me rank, and before the wicissitudes of fortune brought me low; I cannot therefore consent to be called by that; and my married name is the name of a wagabond, and I despise it. O sir, inwent a name, for mercy's sake!"
"I 'll inwent it for love's sake," says John, slipping his arm round her waist, and drawing her close to him; "and I 'll call you my dove, coz you see you 've got all the timidity and gentleness o' that lovely bird, and your voice is sweeter than the turtle's, I 'm sure."
"O Captain, my woice is n't a nice woice now-a-days,—my woice went with the rest of my attractions when I was dethroned. I had a nice woice once. If we could have met then!"
"My dove!" says John, "whatever your woice hes ben, I would n't hev it no sweeter than what it is now; it kerries me back to the years that hed hope in 'em,—the years when I was a boy, and in love."
"Say no more," says the widow; "my heart already tells me that you love another,"—and she began to pout.
"Lord bless us!" says John; "our boat is aground. I was so took up with you, Rose, that I did n't see she was driftin' down stream, and here we be, high and dry, and a storm a-comin' on; but you can't blame me so ha'shly, my dear Rose, as what I blame myself. Can you forgive me?"
"Forgive you?" cries the widow, reproachfully. "Can you forget that I am an undertaker's daughter?"