At this age, passion has not yet an oral language; it is in the heart,
in the head especially, but not on the lips; one comprehends,
experiences, dreams, writes of love in prose and verse, but does not
talk of it. Selkirk had twenty times attempted to confess his
affection to Catherine; he had as yet succeeded only in a few simple
and hasty meteorological sentences, on the rain and fine weather. He
therefore wrote.

Unfortunately, Catherine could not easily read writing; she applied to
him to interpret his letter. This was a hard task for the poor boy,
who, with a tremulous and hesitating voice, saw himself forced to
stammer through all that burning phraseology which seemed to congeal
under the breath of the reader.

The result however was that Catherine became his friend; she
encouraged his confidence, and gave him good advice as an elder sister
might have done. She even called him by the familiar name of Sandy,
which was a good omen.

Meanwhile his scanty resources became exhausted; he had no longer
means to pay for the pot of ale which he consumed daily. The idea of
asking credit of his beloved, of opening with her an account, which he
might never have means to pay, was revolting to him. On the other
hand, the thought of returning home, and asking pardon of his father,
was not less repugnant to his feelings. He was endowed with one of
those haughty and imperious natures which recognize their faults, not
to repair them, but to make of them a starting point, or even a
pedestal.

He was rambling about the port, reflecting on his unfortunate