prize I'm working for? Is your heart more willing to be won?"
He did not stir a step, but looked at her with such intense longing that his glance seemed to draw her nearer like an irresistible appeal; for she went and stood before him, holding out both hands, as if she offered all her little store, as she said with simplest sincerity,—
"It is not worth so much beautiful endeavor; but, if you still want so poor a thing, it is yours."
He caught the hands in his, and seemed about to take the rest of her, but hesitated for an instant, unable to believe that so much happiness was true.
"Are you sure, Rose,—very sure? Don't let a momentary admiration blind you: I'm not a poet yet; and the best are but mortal men, you know."
"It is not admiration, Mac."
"Nor gratitude for the small share I've taken in saving uncle? I had my debt to pay, as well as Phebe, and was as glad to risk my life."
"No: it is not gratitude."
"Nor pity for my patience? I've only done a little yet, and am as far as ever from being like your hero. I can work and wait still longer, if you are not sure; for I must have all or nothing."
"O Mac! why will you be so doubtful? You said you'd make me love you, and you've done it. Will you believe me now?" And, with a sort of desperation, she threw herself into his arms, clinging there in
