Miss Butterworth cast down her eyes, and trotted her knees nervously.  She felt that Jim was really in earnest—­that he thoroughly respected her, and that behind his rough exterior there was as true a man as she had ever seen; but the life to which he would introduce her, the gossip to which she would be subjected by any intimate connection with him, and the uprooting of the active social life into which the routine of her daily labor led her, would be a great hardship.  Then there was another consideration which weighed heavily with her.  In her room were the memorials of an early affection and the disappointment of a life.

“Mr. Fenton,” she said, looking up—­

“Jest call me Jim.”

“Well, Jim—­” and Miss Butterworth smiled through tearful eyes—­“I must tell you that I was once engaged to be married.”

“Sho!  You don’t say!”

“Yes, and I had everything ready.”

“Now, you don’t tell me!”

“Yes, and the only man I ever loved died—­died a week before the day we had set.”

“It must have purty near finished ye off.”

“Yes, I should have been glad to die myself.”

“Well, now, Miss Butterworth, if ye s’pose that Jim Fenton wouldn’t bring that man to life if he could, and go to your weddin’ singin’ hallelujer, you must think he’s meaner nor a rat.  But ye know he’s dead, an’ ye never can see him no more.  He’s a goner, an’ ye’re all alone, an’ here’s a man as’ll take care on ye fur him; an’ it does seem to me that if he was a reasonable man he’d feel obleeged for what I’m doin’.”

Miss Butterworth could not help smiling at Jim’s earnestness and ingenuity, but his proposition was so sudden and strange, and she had so long ago given up any thought of marrying, that it was impossible for her to give him an answer then, unless she should give him the answer which he deprecated.

“Jim,” she said at last, “I believe you are a good man.  I believe you are honorable, and that you mean well toward me; but we have been brought up very differently, and the life into which you wish to bring me would be very strange to me.  I doubt whether I could be happy in it.”

Jim saw that it would not help him to press his suit further at that time, and recognized the reasonableness of her hesitation.  He knew he was rough and unused to every sort of refinement, but he also knew that he was truthful, and honorable, and faithful; and with trust in his own motives and trust in Miss Butterworth’s good sense and discretion, he withheld any further exhibition of his wish to settle the affair on the spot.

“Well, Miss Butterworth,” he said, rising, “ye know yer own business, but there’ll be a house, an’ a stoop, an’ a bureau, an’ a little ladder for flowers, an’ Mike Conlin will draw the lumber, an’ Benedict’ll put it together, an’ Jim Fenton’ll be the busiest and happiest man in a hundred mile.”

As Jim rose, Miss Butterworth also stood up, and looked up into his face.  Jim regarded her with tender admiration.