A long pause followed, in which she evidently labored with great
distress--then she continued:

"I will frankly and faithfully say _why_ I cannot. I know all--I know your
feelings for me once. You went away because you were poor, and you thought
I was rich. Shall I be less strong than yourself? I am poor now; I do not
regret it, except--pardon me, sir, I am confused--I meant to say, that
_you_ are now the richer. It humbles me to speak of this--why did you
not"--

There she stopped, blushing and trembling.

"Why did I not? Oh! do not stop there, I pray you."

She replied to my words in a broken and agitated voice:

"I cannot finish. I was thinking of--of--the day when I mended your coat!"

And a smile broke through the tears in her eyes, as she gazed timidly at
me. I shall not prolong the account of our interview. She soon left me,
resolute to the last; and I came away, perfectly miserable.

What shall I do? I cannot live without her. My life would be a miserable
mockery. To see her there near me, at the window, in the street; to see
her tresses in the sunlight, her little slipper as it flits through the
flower-enveloped gate; to feel that she is near me, but lost to me! Never
could I endure it! But what can I do? Is there anything that can move her?

--Ah! that may! Let me try it. Oh, fortunate accident. To-morrow, or very