I confess that there was something about this young man which made me like him better than before; but of course a match such as he proposed was out of the question.
My sister shook her head and drew away her hand. “I cannot, I cannot,” she said.
“Tell me,” he said, “do you think well of me—do you care for me a little—do you think you can say you love me, ever so little?”
“I do! I do!” cried my sister, to my amazement, hiding her face in her hands. “I loved you on the first day I saw you! I can’t help it! I do!”
“Ah, then,” said the young man, rising, while I on my part remained speechless with astonishment, “what’s to hinder? You are mine!”
“No, no,” said my sister, weeping, “it can never be.”
“Is it because I am poor and friendless?”
My sister said never a word.
“Is it because you prize rank and wealth more than love?”
Still my sister said nothing.