How I had loved this man!—­with what a self-forgetting, adoring love!  He had been my thought, day and night.  I would have done anything,—­sacrificed, suffered anything,—­yes, sinned even,—­to please his lightest fancy.  And he cast me coldly off because I had no fortune!—­trampled my heart into the dust because I was poor!

“You make no answer, Juanita,” he said, at length.

“I am thinking,” I replied, looking up and laughing slightly, “how to say that I quite agree with you, and have been planning all day how I should manage to tell you the very same thing.”

Miserable falsehood!  But I spoke it so coolly, that he was thoroughly deceived.  He never suspected the truth,—­my deep love, my outraged pride.

“It is just as you have said, William.  We have elegant tastes, and no means of gratifying them.  What should we do together?  Only make each other miserable.  You need a rich wife, I a rich husband, who can supply us with the indulgences we demand.  To secure these we can well make the sacrifice of a few romantic fancies.”

“I am glad you think so,” he replied, yet somewhat absently.

“You must wait awhile for Florence,” I continued; “she is four years old, and twelve years hence you will yet be quite a personable individual.  And Florence will have a fortune worth waiting for, I assure you.  Or perhaps you have somebody more eligible already in view.  Come, William, be frank,—­tell me all about it.”

“I did not expect this levity, Juanita,” he answered, severely.  “You must know that I have never thought of such a thing.  And believe me,” he said, in a tenderer tone, “that, among all the beautiful women I have seen,—­and some have not disdained to show me favor,—­none ever touched my heart for a moment.  Had we any reasonable prospect of happiness, I could never give you up; I love you better a thousand times than anything in the world.”

“Except yourself,” I said, mockingly; and I looked at him with a mischievous smile, while a storm of passion raged in my heart and my brain seemed on fire.  “Be it so!  I do not complain of such a splendid rival.  But really, William, I cannot boast of constancy like yours, even; though I suppose most people would consider that rather a poor, flawed specimen.  It hurt my dignity very much when Uncle Heywood called our attachment a boy-and-girl affair; but I soon found that he knew best about it.  For a time I kept my love very warm and glowing; but it was not long ere the distractions you bade me seek in society proved more potent than I wished.  I found there were other things to be enjoyed than dreams of you, and even—­shall I confess it?  I can now, I suppose—­other people to be admired as well as you!”

“Indeed!” he said, with ill-concealed annoyance.  “You had a great talent for concealment, then; your letters showed no trace of the change.”