The Harvest of Years by Martha Lewis Beckwith Ewell
page 38 of 330 (11%)
page 38 of 330 (11%)
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I love you, and you are my wild flower, are you not? Speak to me, call
me your Louis! Love me, as I do you. Ah! if you did not love me I could not stay here till to-morrow--you think me young and presumptuous--you say I do not know myself and I will change--I will not change--I am not young--I want great love, such as comes to me through your eyes, to help me--and you love me--you are my precious wild flower--I shall live for you and my little mother." No word had escaped my lips, and now he paused, and looking at me, said: "Tell me if you do not love me!--tell me, Emily." Why did I--how could I answer him as I did--so cold; my voice fell upon my own ear as I said slowly: "I don't know, Louis--you are so strange." What an answer! He quivered and the tears came to his eyes; he dashed them aside and said: "How long shall I wait for you? say it now and help me; your spirit loves me; I can hear it speak to me." I thought for the moment he was crazed. He divined my thought and said: "No, not crazy, but I want your help." "Oh, Louis!" I cried, "I don't know, I am so ignorant--why was I born so? don't treat me unkindly, you are dear to me, dear, but I can't talk." |
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