he realized that he loved another woman."

"But she really never loved you, John," I exclaimed. "If she had she
never would have allowed you to go away."

"I hope to God she never did!" he exclaimed. "But in those old days I
asked her to be my wife, and I told her I would wait for her. And she
has always been very fond of me, at least as a good friend, and--and--who
knows? I hate the idea that I must perhaps inflict pain upon her, some
day."

But I shook my head, obstinately.

"No, she never loved you," I insisted. "I know now how people love. It is
a desire to cling to one, to be ever with him, to share with him toil,
and pain, and hunger, joyfully, happily, for all the days and days to
come. And when you have to leave me I shall be restless and nervous, like
that poor dear Mrs. Barnett, until you come back and I can be glad again.
Oh! John! That girl never loved you!"

Just then the little parson's wife came up, smilingly as ever.

"Are you two having lover's quarrels already?" she asked.

"No," I answered, "I was explaining to him that no other woman ever
could--or--or ever would...."

"Oh! My dear," she interrupted, "the explanation of obvious things is one
of the most delightful privileges of the engaged state, and I won't
interrupt you any more. I'm going to see the new Burton baby, and, by the