the island regretted it.  She said it would be a mesalliance for him, Tardif!  What then would it be for you, a Dobree?  No; it is a delusion, an infatuation, which will quickly pass away.  I cannot believe you are so weak as to be taken in by mere prettiness without character; and this person—­I do not say so harshly, Martin—­has no character, no name.  Were you free you could not marry her.  There is a mystery about her, and mystery usually means shame.  A Dobree could not make an adventuress his wife.  Then you have seen so little of her.  Three times, since the week you were there in March!  What is that compared to the years we have spent together?  It is impossible that in your heart of hearts you should love her more than me.

“I have been trying to think what you would do if all is broken off between us.  We could not keep this a secret in Guernsey, and everybody would blame you.  I will not ask you to think of my mortification at being jilted, for people would call it that.  I could outlive that.  But what are you to do?  We cannot go on again as we used to do.  I must speak plainly about it.  Your practice is not sufficient to maintain the family in a proper position for the Dobrees; and if I go to live alone at the new house, as I must do, what is to become of my uncle and aunt?  I have often considered this, and have been glad the difficulty was settled by our marriage.  Now every thing will be unsettled again.

“I did not intend to say any thing about myself; but, O Martin! you do not know the blank that it will be to me.  I have been so happy since you asked me to be your wife.  It was so pleasant to think that I should live all my life in Guernsey, and yet not be doomed to the empty, vacant lot of an unmarried woman.  You think that perhaps Johanna is happy single?  She is content—­good women ought to be content; but, I tell you, I would gladly exchange her contentment for Aunt Dobree’s troubles, with her pride and happiness in you.  I have seen her troubles clearly; and I say, Martin, I would give all Johanna’s calm, colorless peace for her delight in her son.

“Then I cannot give up the thought of our home, just finished and so pretty.  It was so pleasant this afternoon before you came in with your dreadful thunder-bolt.  I was thinking what a good wife I would be to you; and how, in my own house, I should never be tempted into those tiresome tempers you have seen in me sometimes.  It was your father often who made me angry, and I visited it upon you, because you are so good-tempered.  That was foolish of me.  You could not know how much I love you, how my life is bound up in you, or you would have been proof against that person in Sark.

“I think it right to tell you all this now, though it is not in my nature to make professions and demonstrations of my love.  Think of me, of yourself, of your poor mother.  You were never selfish, and you can do noble