The Hood River Glacier

MAN PROPOSES.

O, mother, no; it is useless; let us speak no more about it."

My mother stretched her plump small hands towards the fire, her fingers lavishly ornamented with rings, the coquetry of ladies in the '60s.

"James," said she, with her most dignified countenance, "you are as stubborn as your father. He, too, objected to marriage. He belonged to a club—the poor man—to the Bachelors' Club, and had seriously sworn to remain faithful to its principles. But you, too, you will come to it."

"But, then, in my father's day, young girls were brought up more simply; they aspired no higher than to play the piano prettily, write correctly, and make a graceful courtesy. Then, on leaving school, young girls came into their families with enough instruction to understand the pages of a romance and follow a conversation, not enough to humiliate their parents, and often their husbands. They were then really 'home angels.'"

"You exhaust my patience, and I can't bear such prejudices. 'Home angels,' indeed! As if one must be a fool or a nonentity to be domestic. A bright woman could never be satisfied with the role you assign her. If you had not wasted your time at college, you would not be so afraid of comparisons."

"You are too severe. Do you pretend that Latin and Greek are incompatible with modesty, sweetness and domestic qualities in a woman?"

"I am certain of it!"

"Very well, then; we will speak no more of marriage. You will accompany me to Desjardins, for you will meet the twin sisters, and you may judge for yourself, since my experience is not worth your own."

Poor little mother! I knew she and her old friend, Mme. Desjardins, had plotted together against my bachelorhood, but a girl with the degree of B.A. was enough to frighten me into it more securely than ever. When we arrived at Mme. Desjardins' she greeted me as "little James." This exclamation upset me. I expected her to ask me if I had brought my marbles along, but instead of that she presented me to her daughters. The twin sisters resembled each other only in their dress. Mlle. Martha was a very beautiful brunette—a Greek goddess, with pure, straight features. Mlle. Rose was less imposing, a sweet, pretty blonde. I was sure that in spite of her nineteen years she still played with dolls. She certainly was not the "learned young woman" my mother had proposed I should court; it must be the other one. There was dancing, and I offered my arm to Mlle. Rose. After a waltz we chatted. She was witty and a little sharp, this meek-looking little blonde. I started a conversation on commonplace subjects, and in a short space of time I had judged my companion to be a most charming little woman, and it was with much reluctance I left her side. Blue eyes, blue gauze, smiling lips, and a cloud of golden hair were all mingled in my sleep that night. Why not the stately, statuesque, dark beauty my mother would so gladly welcome as a daughter?

In another week I must again accompany my mother to the weekly reception of Mme. Desjardins, and then they would come to my mother's Friday "at home."

Thus twice a week I saw her, and naturally fell in love deeper and deeper. "Dear little Rose," thought I, "true home angel. What a wife she will be to make home bright and happy—for some one!" A strange fear came over me when I recalled many instances where Rose had appeared anxious to avoid me, perhaps out of consideration for her sister, or perhaps to save me from disappointment.

Under the torture of this sudden suspense I flew to my mother. "I must make a clean breast of it, mother dear: I love Rose, and you must help me to gain her."

"O, James, is not this somewhat sudden? And those convictions you have cherished"

"Nonsense, mother; listen, this is serious. You will admit that so sweet and unpretending a girl is seldom found now. No more words, please, but do like the good mother you are, go and ask Mme. Desjardins for the hand of her daughter."

"My dear child, I will teach you how to be consistent: I cannot go back on my word. I will have nothing to do with the arrangements of a marriage for you."

She said all this with such an amused smile that I could not think her serious. I determined, however, to put an end to this suspense, and soon found an opportunity.

There was a concert and ball at the Desjardins' beautiful country home. When bending over her mother's hand I saw but one being, and heaven entered my soul as I caught the light of her eyes. It seemed but an instant before we were outside, wandering about the grounds. The words were on my lips to speak, when some one called to us.

"Come, La Mariani is going to sing!"

What cared I for Mariani? But Rose hastened her steps, and I followed hoping she would at least stay outside. As we neared the house, she led the way to a corner of the veranda, and there the words and voice of the wonderful singer reached our ears and entered our hearts.

My soul is full of dreams,
My soul is full of love.

"Those words are mine, Rose. Do you understand? Don't you see how I love you? You are the woman I have dreamed of since I have known how to dream. You are the companion I have longed for, Rose; could you not love me?"

In a low, sad voice, she murmured:

"My friend, I am not the companion you have dreamed of. Too often you have described me, your ideal woman. You love me because you think me simple, as young girls should be—and you think because you have sometimes seen me attending to household duties that I would make a good domestic wife, but you will love me no more when you are undeceived. When you know—" Her voice had been firm until now, and though her words puzzled me and pained me I became aware of the sorrow in her voice—a sorrow which meant more than sympathy.

"Rose, in the name of heaven, what is it?"

She mastered herself in a moment.

"How often have you cruelly told me you would never marry a college graduate—a bluestocking, as you called her, and yet you ought to have known—your mother knows—"

The fool I had been! And how I wished I could fall right there on my knees to ask her pardon. And yet how could I have suspected that so much feminine grace could be united to a ripe and mature intellect?

"O, Rose, speak to me. Speak in Latin, in Greek, if you will. Only say you forgive me and will love me."

The Princess.