CHRISTINE. Well, that's a very pretty speech, and deserves one of my
best courtesies. Now suppose I should marry you, my "dear ally Croaker,"
I shall expect to see myself placed on the summit of a baggage-wagon,
with soldiers' wives and a few dear squalling brats, whose musical tones
drown e'en the "squeaking of the wry-neck'd fife;" and if I should
escape from the enemy at the close of a battle, I should be compelled to
be ever ready, and "pack up my tatters and follow the drum."--No, no, I
can't think of it.

LENOX. Prithee, be serious, dear Christine, your gaiety alarms me. Can
you permit me to leave you without a sigh? Can I depart from that dear
cottage and rush to battle without having the assurance that there is a
heart within which beats in unison with mine? a heart which can
participate in my glory, and sympathize in my misfortunes?

CHRISTINE. No--not so, Lenox; your glory is dear to me, your happiness
my anxious wish. I have seen you bear pain like a soldier, and
misfortune like a man. I am myself a soldier's daughter, and believe me,
when I tell you, that under the appearance of gaiety, my spirits are
deeply depressed at your approaching departure. I have been taught, by a
brave father, to love glory when combined with virtue. There is my
hand;--be constant, and I am ever your friend; be true, and you shall
find me ever faithful.

LENOX. Thanks--a thousand thanks, beloved Christine; you have removed a
mountain of doubts and anxious wishes from my heart: I did hope for
this reward, though it was a daring one. Love and honour must now
inspire me, and should we again be triumphant in battle, I shall return
to claim the reward of constancy--a reward dearer than thrones--the
heart of a lovely and virtuous woman.

CHRISTINE. Enough, dear Lenox; I shall never doubt your faith. But come,
let us in to breakfast--stay--my knight of the rueful countenance, where
is the portrait which you have been sketching of me? Let me look at your
progress.

LENOX. 'Tis here. [_Gives a small drawing book._

CHRISTINE. [_Opening it._] Heavens, how unlike! Why Lenox, you were
dreaming of the _Venus de Medici_ when you drew this--Oh, you flatterer!

LENOX. Nay, 'tis not finished; now stand there, while I sketch the
drapery.--[_Places her at a distance, takes out a pencil, and works at
the drawing._]

CHRISTINE. Why, what a statue you are making of me. Pray, why not make a
picture of it at once? Place me