Standard Selections | Page 8

to get my chin above the rusty nails
on the top, blowing kisses at the lights in the windows, and
romantically calling on the night to shield my Dora,--I don't exactly
know from what,--I suppose from fire, perhaps from mice, to which she
had a great objection.
Dora had a discreet friend, comparatively stricken in years, almost of
the ripe age of twenty, I should say, whose name was Miss Mills. Dora
called her Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy Miss Mills!

One day Miss Mills said: "Dora is coming to stay with me. She is
coming the day after to-morrow. If you would like to call, I am sure
papa would be happy to see you."
I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness. At last, arrayed for the
purpose, at a vast expense, I went to Miss Mills's, fraught with a
declaration. Mr. Mills was not at home. I didn't expect he would be.
Nobody wanted him. Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills would do.
I was shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and Dora were.
Dora's little dog Jip was there. Miss Mills was copying music, and Dora
was painting flowers. What were my feelings when I recognized
flowers I had given her!
Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa was not at
home, though I thought we all bore that with fortitude. Miss Mills was
conversational for a few minutes, and then laying down her pen, got up
and left the room.
I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.
"I hope your poor horse was not tired when he got home at night from
that picnic," said Dora, lifting up her beautiful eyes.
"It was a long way for him."
I began to think I would do it to-day.
"It was a long way for him, for he had nothing to uphold him on the
journey."
"Wasn't he fed, poor thing?"
I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.
"Ye-yes, he was well taken care of. I mean he had not the unutterable
happiness that I had in being so near to you."
I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot.

"I don't know why you should care for being near me, or why you
should call it a happiness. But of course you don't mean what you say.
Jip, you naughty boy, come here!"
I don't know how I did it, but I did it in a moment. I intercepted Jip. I
had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a
word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I should die without her. I
told her that I idolized and worshiped her. Jip barked madly all the time.
My eloquence increased, and I said if she would like me to die for her,
she had but to say the word, and I was ready. I had loved her to
distraction every minute, day and night, since I first set eyes upon her. I
loved her at that minute to distraction. I should always love her, every
minute, to distraction. Lovers had loved before, and lovers would love
again; but no lover had ever loved, might, could, would, or should ever
love, as I loved Dora. The more I raved, the more Jip barked. Each of
us in his own way got more mad every moment.
Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by quiet enough,
and Jip was lying in her lap winking peacefully at me. It was off my
mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged.
Being poor, I felt it necessary the next time I went to my darling to
expatiate on that unfortunate drawback. I soon carried desolation into
the bosom of our joys--not that I meant to do it, but that I was so full of
the subject--by asking Dora without the smallest preparation, if she
could love a beggar.
"How can you ask me anything so foolish? Love a beggar!"
"Dora, my own dearest, I am a beggar!"
"How can you be such a silly thing," replied Dora, slapping my hand,
"as to sit there telling such stories? I'll make Jip bite you, if you are so
ridiculous."
But I looked so serious that Dora began to cry. She did nothing but
exclaim, "O dear! O dear!" And oh, she was so frightened! And where
was Julia Mills? And oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please!

until I was almost beside myself.
I thought I had killed her. I sprinkled water on her face; I went down on
my