“There is no chance of your ever marrying Olivia now,” continued my mother, faintly, “and it is a sin for you to cherish your love for her.  That is a very plain duty, Martin.”

“Such love as I cherish for Olivia will hurt neither her nor myself,” I answered.  “I would not wrong her by a thought.”

“But she can never be your wife,” she said.

“I never think of her as my wife,” I replied; “but I can no more cease to love her than I can cease to breathe.  She has become part of my life, mother.”

“Still, time and change must make a difference,” she said.  “You will realize your loneliness when I am gone, though you cannot before.  I want to have some idea of what you will be doing in the years to come, before we meet again.  If I think at all, I shall be thinking of you, and I do long to have some little notion.  You will not mind me forming one poor little plan for you once more, my boy?”

“No,” I answered, smiling to keep back the tears that were ready to start to my eyes.

“I scarcely know how to tell you,” she said.  “You must not be angry or offended with us.  But my dear Julia has promised me, out of pure love and pity for me, you know, that if ever—­how can I express it?—­if you ever wish you could return to the old plans—­it may be a long time first, but if you conquered your love for Olivia, and could go back, and wished to go back to the time before you knew her—­Julia will forget all that has come between.  Julia would consent to marry you if you asked her to be your wife.  O Martin, I should die so much happier if I thought you would ever marry Julia, and go to live in the house I helped to get ready for you!”

Julia’s head had dropped upon my mother’s shoulder, and her face was hidden, while my mother’s eyes sought mine beseechingly.  I was irresistibly overcome by this new proof of her love for both of us, for I knew well what a struggle it must have been to her to gain the mastery over her proper pride and just resentment.  I knelt down beside her, clasping her hand and my mother’s in my own.

“Mother, Julia,” I said, “I promise that if ever I can be true in heart and soul to a wife, I will ask Julia to become mine.  But it may be many years hence; I dare not say how long.  God alone knows how dear Olivia is to me.  And Julia is too good to waste herself upon so foolish a fellow.  She may change, and see some one she can love better.”

“That is nonsense, Martin,” answered Julia, with a ring of the old sharpness in her tone; “at my age I am not likely to fall in love again.—­Don’t be afraid, aunt; I shall not change, and I will take care of Martin.  His home is ready, and he will come back to me some day, and it will all be as you wish.”

I know that promise of ours comforted her, for she never lamented over my coming solitude again.

I have very little more I can say about her.  When I look back and try to write more fully of those last, lingering days, my heart fails me.  The darkened room, the muffled sounds, the loitering, creeping, yet too rapid hours!  I had no time to think of Julia, of Olivia, or of myself; I was wrapped up in her.