But spring came; my school drew to a close; and I began to think of home, Aunt Huldah, and Fanny.  I wished that my sister could see Rachel.  I knew she would appreciate her, for there was depth in Fanny, with all her liveliness.  Sometimes I imagined, just imagined, myself married to Rachel.  But then there was Aunt Huldah,—­what would she say to a foreigner?  And I was dependent upon Aunt Huldah.  Besides, how did I know that Rachel would have me?  Was I equal to her?  How worthless seemed my little stock of book-learning by the side of that heart-wisdom which she had coined, as it were, from her own sorrow!

My last day came, and I had not spoken.  In fact, we latterly had both grown silent.  I was to leave in the afternoon stage.  I gave the driver my trunk, telling him to call for me at the Squire’s,—­for I must bid Rachel good-bye, and in some way let her know how I felt towards her.  As I drew near the house, I saw that she was drawing water.  I stepped quickly towards the well, but Sam appeared just then, and I could not say one word.  She walked into the house.  I went behind with the water-pail, and Sam followed us into the porch.  Rachel was going up-stairs, but I took her hand to bid her good-bye.  Mrs. Brewster and Sarah were in the kitchen, watching.  “Quite a love-scene!” I heard them whisper.  “I do believe he’ll marry her!”

Now, although I was by nature quiet, yet I could be roused.  Bidding good-bye to Rachel had stirred the very depths of my nature.  I longed to take her in my arms, and bear her away to my own quiet home.  And when, instead of this, I thought of the life to which I must leave her, it needed but those sneering whispers to make me speak out,—­and I did speak out.  Taking her by the hand, I stepped quickly forward, and stood before them.

“And so I will marry her!” I exclaimed.  “If she will accept me, I shall be proud to marry her!”

“Rachel,” said I, turning towards her, “this is strange wooing; but before these people I ask, Will you be my wife?”

The astonished spectators of our love-scene looked on in dismay.

“Mr. Browne!” exclaimed Mrs. Brewster, “do you know what you are doing?  I have no ill-will to the girl; but I feel it my duty to tell you who and what she is.”

“I know what Rachel Lowe is, Madam!” I cried, almost fiercely; “you don’t,—­you can’t!”

Then, turning to the trembling girl, I said again,—­

“Rachel, say, will you be my wife?”

At this moment Sam came forward.  His face was pale, and he trembled.

“No, Rachel,” said he, “don’t be his wife!  Be mine!  I haven’t treated you right, I know I haven’t; but I love you, you don’t know how much!  The very way you have tried to keep me off has made me love you!”

“Sam! stop!” cried his mother, in a rage.  “What do you mean?  You know you won’t marry that girl!”

“Mother,” exclaimed Sam, “you don’t know anything about her!  She is worth every other girl in the place, and handsomer than all of them put together!”