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Book, page 41 / 151 looking down into them, as they reflected back his own image. He could not love himself without harm to himself, but he could gaze on, and love to gaze for ever upon the image of himself pictured in those dear eyes, and yet be innocent. "Love you, Ellen? How can she help loving you?" "I do not know why any one should love me," was the artless reply. "I do not know how any one can help loving you." "Ah, you may think so, but every one does not see with your eyes; and maybe, you are only blinded. I am not perfect, Charles; don't forget that." "You are perfect to me, and that is all I ask. But say, Ellen, dear, sha'n't we be married in a month?" "I am so young, Charles; and then I ought to be certain that your mother is willing. Does she know all about it? You have written to her, have you not?" The young man did not reply for some moments. Then he said--"Never fear, Ellen; my mother will love you as her own child, when she sees and knows you. I have not written about you to her, because, as I must tell you, my mother, though one of the best of women, is a little proud of her standing in society. The moment I write to her on the subject, she will have a dozen grave questions to ask about your family, and whether they are connected with this great personage or that--questions that I despair of answering, in a letter, to her satisfaction. But your dear face will explain all, and stop all inquiries, when I present you to her as my wife." "Don't be so certain of that, Charles. If your mother is proud of her family, she will be mortified and displeased should her son marry an unknown girl." "The proudest mother on earth would receive you into her bosom, and call you daughter, without an emotion of wounded pride," was the lover's confident reply. "I know it. I know my mother too well, not
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