"Forgot? No, no. How can you ask such a question? You shall be my dear
Emily still!"

"Ah, those were happy times!" she replied, a little mournfully. "Do you
know, cousin, I wish I could wake, and find that the last month--only
about a month--was a dream?"

"What do you mean by that?" said Mr. Tyrrel with an altered voice. "Have
a care! Do not put me out of humour. Do not come with your romantic
notions now."

"No, no: I have no romantic notions in my head. I speak of something
upon which the happiness of my life depends."

"I see what you would be at. Be silent. You know it is to no purpose to
plague me with your stubbornness. You will not let me be in good humour
with you for a moment. What my mind is determined upon about Grimes, all
the world shall not move me to give up."

"Dear, dear cousin! why, but consider now. Grimes is a rough rustic
lout, like Orson in the story-book. He wants a wife like himself. He
would be as uneasy and as much at a loss with me, as I with him. Why
should we both of us be forced to do what neither of us is inclined to?
I cannot think what could ever have put it into your head. But now, for
goodness' sake, give it up! Marriage is a serious thing. You should not
think of joining two people for a whim, who are neither of them fit for
one another in any respect in the world. We should feel mortified and
disappointed all our lives. Month would go after month, and year after
year, and I could never hope to be my own, but by the death of a person
I ought to love. I am sure, sir, you cannot mean me all this harm. What