“And you are to be married next month?” said Johanna, in an exceedingly troubled tone.

“Yes,” I answered, “and now every word Julia speaks, and every thing she does, grates upon me.  I love her as much as ever as my cousin, but as my wife!  Good Heavens!  Johanna, I cannot tell you how I dread it.”

“What can be done?” she exclaimed, looking from me to Captain Carey, whose face was as full of dismay as her own.  But he only shook his head despondingly.

“Done!” I repeated, “nothing, absolutely nothing.  It is utterly impossible to draw back.  Our house is nearly ready for us, and even Julia’s wedding-dress and veil are bought.”

“There is not a house you enter,” said Johanna, solemnly, “where they are not preparing a wedding-present for Julia and you.  There has not been a marriage in your district, among ourselves, for nine years.  It is as public as a royal marriage.”

“It must go on,” I answered, with the calmness of despair.  “I am the most good-for-nothing scoundrel in Guernsey to fall in love with my patient.  You need not tell me so, Johanna.  And yet, if I could think that Olivia loved me, I would not change with the happiest man alive.”

“What is her name?” asked Johanna.

“One of the Olliviers,” answered Captain Carey; “but what Olliviers she belongs to, I don’t know.  She is one of the prettiest creatures I ever saw.”

“An Ollivier!” exclaimed Johanna, in her severest accents.  “Martin, what are you thinking of?”

“Her Christian name is Olivia,” I said, hastily; “she does not belong to the Olliviers at all.  It was Tardif’s mistake, and very natural.  She was born in Australia, I believe.”

“Of a good family, I hope?” asked Johanna.  “There are some persons it would be a disgrace to you to love.  What is her other name?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, reluctantly but distinctly.

Johanna turned her face full upon me now—­a face more agitated than I had ever seen it.  There was no use in trying to keep back any part of my serious delinquency, so I resolved to make a clean breast of it.

“I know very little about her,” I said—­“that is, about her history; as for herself, she is the sweetest, dearest, loveliest girl in the whole world to me.  If I were free, and she loved me, I should not know what else to wish for.  All I know is, that she has run away from her people; why, I have no more idea than you have, or who they are, or where they live; and she has been living in Tardif’s cottage since last October.  It is an infatuation, do you say?  So it is, I dare say.  It is an infatuation; and I don’t know that I shall ever shake it off.”

“What is she like?” asked Johanna.  “Is she very merry and bright?”

“I never saw her laugh,” I said.

“Very melancholy and sad, then?”

“I never saw her weep,” I said.

“What is it then, Martin?” she asked, earnestly.