“I did not mean that,” said Rose, weeping; “I only wish you had left here, that you might have turned to high and noble pursuits again; to pursuits well worthy of you.”

“There is no pursuit more worthy of me: more worthy of the highest nature that exists: than the struggle to win such a heart as yours,” said the young man, taking her hand. “Rose, my own dear Rose! For years⁠—for years⁠—I have loved you; hoping to win my way to fame, and then come proudly home and tell you it had been pursued only for you to share; thinking, in my daydreams, how I would remind you, in that happy moment, of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy’s attachment, and claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mute contract that had been sealed between us! That time has not arrived; but here, with no fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so long your own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the offer.”