your last sigh; and now you expect poor me to sacrifice to you all my dreams and my happiness.”
“But who is the beauty you are talking of, Rosa?” said Cornelius, trying in vain to remember a woman to whom Rosa might possibly be alluding.
“The dark beauty, with a slender waist, small feet, and a noble head; in short, I am speaking of your flower.”
Cornelius smiled.
“That is an imaginary lady love, at all events; whereas, without counting that amorous Master Jacob—you, by your own account, are surrounded with all sorts of swains eager to make love to you. Do you remember, Rosa, what you told me of the students, officers, and clerks of the Hague? Are there no clerks, officers, or students at Lœvestein?
“Indeed there are, and lots of them.”
“Who write letters?”
“They do write.”
“And now, as you know how to read?”—
Here Cornelius heaved a sigh at the thought, that, poor captive as he was, to him alone Rosa owed the faculty of reading the love-letters which she received.
“As to that,” said Rosa, “I think that in reading the notes addressed to me, and passing the different swains in review, who send them to me, I am only following your instructions.”
“How so? My instructions?”
“Indeed, your instructions, sir,” said Rosa, sighing in her turn; “have you forgotten the will written your hand on the Bible of Cornelius De Witte? I have not forgotten it; for now, as I know how to read, I read it every day over and over again. In that will, you bid me to love and marry a handsome young man of twenty-six or eight years. I am on the
