even if there was no other raison against it."

The melancholy but lovely girl rose with him; she trembled; she
blushed--and again got pale; then blushed once more; at length she
spoke:

"An' is that, dear Con, all that you yet know of Mave Sullivan's heart,
or the love for you that's in it? Your mother! Oh! an' is it come to
that with her? But--but--do you think that even that, or anything that
wouldn't be a crime in yourself; or, do you think; oh! I know not what
to say; I see now, dear Con, the raison for the sorrow that's in your
face; the heart-break an' the care that's there; I see, indeed, how low
in spirits an' how hopeless you are; an' I see that although your eye
is clear still it's heavy; heavy with hard affliction; but then, what is
love, Con dear, if it's to fly away when these things come on us? Is it
now, then, that you'd expect me to desert you?--to keep cool with you,
or to lave you when you have no other heart to go to for any comfort
but mine? Oh, no! Con dear. You own Mave Sullivan is none of these.
God knows it's little comfort," she proceeded, weeping bitterly; "it's
little comfort's in my poor heart for any one; but there's one thing in
it, Con, dear; that, poor as I stand here this minute; an' where, oh!
where is there or could' there be a poorer girl than I am; still there's
one thing in it that I wouldn't exchange for this world's wealth; an'
that, that, dear Con, is my love for you! That's the love, dear Con,
that neither this world nor its cares, nor its shame, nor its poverty,
nor its sorrow, can ever overcome or banish; that's the love that would
live with you in wealth; that would keep by your side through good and
through evil; that would share your sickness; that would rejoice with
you; that would grieve with you; beg with you, starve with you, an', to
go where you might, die by your side. I cannot bid you to throw care and
sorrow away; but if it's consolation to you to know an' to feel how your
own Mave Sullivan loves you, then you have that consolation. Dear Con,
I am ready to marry you, an' share your distress tomorrow; ay, this day,
or this minute, if it could be done."

There was a gentle, calm, but firm enthusiasm about her manner, which
carried immediate conviction with it, and as her tears fell in silence,
she bestowed a look upon her lover which fully and tenderly confirmed
all that her tongue had uttered.

Both had been standing; but her lover, taking her hand, sat down, a