tand! Many and many a night have I lain awake, sorrowing
over your sorrow and my inability to help you."

"Listen to me, Betty dear. My feeling for your cousin, though pure and
tender, was as nothing compared to what I have for you. Even when I was
most under the spell of her beauty and sweetness, I thought of you as
one who might well stir the pulse and thrill the heart of any man not
made armor-proof by love for another."

"But you did love Cousin Abby?" she questioned with another wistful,
half-timid look.

"Yes, I did, in a dreamy, poetical way. Or, rather, I was in love with
love and romance, and all that, and she seemed the embodiment of beauty
and poetry. But I never touched even the outer edges of her
susceptibilities, and it was this complete unresponsiveness that healed
my wound, even before I was aware. A man, warm-blooded, ardent, as I
am, must have an answering love to keep his own alive. There was
nothing in that first romantic feeling that need give you a pang of
regret. It was a mere boyish fancy; this, dear, is the love of my
manhood. And in fact, my darling, I don't believe there is so much as a
kiss to choose between your love for me and mine for you. If there is,"
he added humorously, "this will restore the balance," and he kissed her
fondly. "And now, my dear girl," he went on, speaking soberly, but with
a glad light in his eyes, "I have great news for you; but first, let me
ask, by what name do you propose to be known when we are married?"

"Well," exclaimed the girl in some bewilderment, "I said awhile ago
that happiness had addled your brains; but I really did not suspect the
trouble to be so serious as this. By what name, pray, should I be known
but that of Mistress Betsy Dudley--ugly though it be? Oh, I see!" she
cried, thinking she understood his meaning. "You don't like the name
Betsy. Neither do I. It's perfectly horrid; and it is my standing
grievance against my parents that they saddled upon their innocent babe
so uncouth a prenomen. If father did wish to honor his mother by
endowing his first-born with the name, why could he not have softened
it into Betty, or Bettina, or Bessie, or, better still, have christened
me Elizabeth, instead of insisting, as he always does, that I shall be
called Betsy? I'll tell you what," she added archly, "when I'm married,
I shall insist that everybody shall address me as Elizabeth. Isn't that
more to your taste, my lord?"

"Elizabeth what?" he persiste