you do not mean it. You have not believed that I loved Miss
Effingham because she was rich."

"But you have told me that you could love no one who is not rich."

"I have said nothing of the kind. Love is involuntary. It does not
often run in a yoke with prudence. I have told you my history as
far as it is concerned with Violet Effingham. I did love her very
dearly."

"Did love her, Mr. Finn?"

"Yes;--did love her. Is there any inconstancy in ceasing to love when
one is not loved? Is there inconstancy in changing one's love, and in
loving again?"

"I do not know," said Mary, to whom the occasion was becoming so
embarrassing that she no longer was able to reply with words that had
a meaning in them.

"If there be, dear, I am inconstant." He paused, but of course she
had not a syllable to say. "I have changed my love. But I could not
speak of a new passion till I had told the story of that which has
passed away. You have heard it all now, Mary. Can you try to love me,
after that?" It had come at last,--the thing for which she had been
ever wishing. It had come in spite of her imprudence, and in spite of
her prudence. When she had heard him to the end she was not a whit
angry with him,--she was not in the least aggrieved,--because he had
been lost to her in his love for this Miss Effingham, while she had
been so nearly lost by her love for him. For women such episodes
in the lives of their lovers have an excitement which is almost
pleasurable, whereas each man is anxious to hear his lady swear that
until he appeared upon the scene her heart had been fancy free. Mary,
upon the whole, had liked the story,--had thought that it had been
finely told, and was well pleased with the final catastrophe. But,
nevertheless, she was not prepared with her reply. "Have you no
answer to give me, Mary?" he said, looking up into her eyes. I am
afraid that he did not doubt what would be her answer,--as it would
be good that all lovers should do. "You must vouchsafe me some word,
Mary."

When she essayed to speak she found that she was dumb. She could not
get her voice to give her the assistance of a single word. She did
not cry, but there was a motion as of sobbing in her throat which
impeded all utterance. She was as happy as earth,--as heaven could
make her; but she did not know how to tell him that she was happy.
And yet she longed to tell it, that he might know how thankful she
was to him for his goodness. He still sat looking a