I told her that I loved her--had loved her for years--that she was
dearer, far, to me than all on earth beside my mother. And she answered
me--agitated, but perfectly resolved:
"I cannot marry you, Mr. Cleave."
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.
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