y courted you for your own sake.
Did you not say so?"

"Very likely," was the answer, in a low murmur.

"It was a bitter word. Well, at least one man who has seen women as
plenty as flowers in May has lingered about you for your own sake. And
since he is one whom you can never marry, you will believe him. There
is an argument in favor of some other man. But don't give yourself for
a meal to a minotaur like Bult. I shall go now and pack. I shall make
my excuses to Mrs. Arrowpoint." Klesmer rose as he ended, and walked
quickly toward the door.

"You must take this heap of manuscript," then said Catherine, suddenly
making a desperate effort. She had risen to fetch the heap from another
table. Klesmer came back, and they had the length of the folio sheets
between them.

"Why should I not marry the man who loves me, if I love him?" said
Catherine. To her the effort was something like the leap of a woman
from the deck into the lifeboat.

"It would be too hard--impossible--you could not carry it through. I am
not worth what you would have to encounter. I will not accept the
sacrifice. It would be thought a _mesalliance_ for you and I should be
liable to the worst accusations."

"Is it the accusations you are afraid of? I am afraid of nothing but
that we should miss the passing of our lives together."

The decisive word had been spoken: there was no doubt concerning the
end willed by each: there only remained the way of arriving at it, and
Catherine determined to take the straightest possible. She went to her
father and mother in the library, and told them that she had promised
to marry Klesmer.

Mrs. Arrowpoint's state of mind was pitiable. Imagine Jean Jacques,
after his essay on the corrupting influence of the arts, waking up
among children of nature who had no idea of grilling the raw bone they
offered him for breakfast with the primitive flint knife; or Saint
Just, after fervidly denouncing all recognition of pre-eminence,
receiving a vote of thanks for the unbroken mediocrity of his speech,
which warranted the dullest patriots in delivering themselves at equal
length. Something of the same sort befell the authoress of "Tasso,"
when what she had safely demanded of the dead Leonora was enacted by
her own Catherine. It is hard for us to live up to our own eloquence,
and keep pace with our winged words, while we are treading the solid
earth and are liable to heavy dining. Besides, it has long been
understood that t