nd."

Which of the two could I credit?

Besides, even if she were constant and true to me, Mrs Clyde would
certainly never give her consent to our engagement, I was confident--no,
not if we both lived and loved until doomsday!

All these bitter thoughts flashed through my mind in a moment, one after
the other.

I was angry, indignant, wretched.

CHAPTER THREE.

"NIL DESPERANDUM."

To-morrow's sun shall warmer glow,
And o'er this gloomy vale of woe
Diffuse a brighter ray!

"O you lovers, you lovers!"--exclaimed little Miss Pimpernell, on my
unbosoming myself to her, and recounting the incidents of my unhappy
interview with Min's mother, shortly after I quitted the scene of my
discomfiture.--"O you lovers, you lovers! You are always, either on the
heights of ecstasy, or deep down in the depths of despair! Be a man,
Frank, and let her see what noble stuff there is in you! There is
nothing in this world worth the having, which can be obtained by merely
looking at it and longing for it. Bear in mind Monsieur Parole's
favourite proverb, `On ne peut pas faire une omelette sans casser les
oeufs!' You mustn't expect that a girl is going to drop into your
mouth, like a ripe cherry, the moment you gape for her! Young ladies
are not so easily won as that, Master Frank, let me tell you! Put your
shoulder to the wheel, my boy! You will have to work and wait.
Remember how long it was that Jacob remained in suspense about his first
love, Rachel--seven, long years; and, _then_, he had to serve seven more
for her after that!"

"Ah, Miss Pimpernell!"--said I,--"but, seven years were not so much to
the long-lived men who existed in those times, as seven months are to us
ephemerals of the nineteenth century! Jacob could very well afford to
wait that time; for he was not over what we call `middle-age' when he
married; and was, most likely, in the flower of his youth on his
ninetieth birthday!--He did not die you know, until he had reached the
ripe age of `an hundred and forty and seven years.'--Besides, he had
Laban's promise to keep him up to his work; but, _I_ have no promise,
and no hope to lead me on, if I do wait--and what would I be at the end
of seven years? Why, I would be thirty--quite old."

"Nonsense, Frank!"--replied the dear old lady, in her brisk cheery way,
jumping round in her chair, and looking me full in the face with her
twinkling black eyes.--"When you are as old as I am, you will not thi