Jerome was about to speak, but Abigail interrupted again.  “I beg you not to make your final decision now,” she said.  “There is no necessity for it.  I would rather, too, that you gave your answer to the Squire instead of me.  I have nothing to do with it.  It is simply a proposition of the Squire’s for you to consider at your leisure.  You know how much my husband has always thought of you since you were a child.  He would be glad to help you, and help himself at the same time, if you will allow him to do so; but that can pass over.  I have something else of more importance to me to say.  Jerome Edwards,” said she, suddenly, and there was a new tone in her voice, “I want you to tell me just how matters stand between you and my daughter, Lucina.  I am her mother, and I have a right to know.”

Jerome looked at her.  His handsome young face was very white.  “I—­have been working hard to earn enough money to marry,” he said, speaking quick, as if his breath failed him.  “I lost my mill.  I will not ask her to wait.”

“You had a fortune, but you gave it away,” returned Mrs. Merritt.  “Well, we will not discuss that; that is not between you and me, or any human being, if you did what you thought right.  Lucina has twenty thousand dollars, you know that?”

Jerome nodded.  “Yes,” he replied, hoarsely.

“What difference will it make whether you have the money or your wife?”

“It makes a difference to me,” Jerome cried then, with that old flash of black eyes which had intimidated the little girl Lucina in years past.

“And yet you say you love my daughter,” said Mrs. Merritt, looking at him steadily.

“I love her so much that I would lay down my life for her!” Jerome cried, fiercely, and there was a flare of red over his pale face.

“But not so much that you would sacrifice one jot or one tittle of your pride for her,” responded Abigail Merritt, with sharp scorn.  Suddenly she sprang up from her chair and stood before the young man, every nerve in her slight body quivering with the fire of eloquence.  “Now listen, Jerome Edwards,” said she.  “I know who and what you are, and I know who and what my daughter is.  I give you your full due.  You have traits which are above the common, and out of the common; some which are noble, and some which render you dangerous to the peace of any one who loves you.  I give you your full due, and I give my daughter hers.  I can say it without vanity—­it is the simple truth—­Lucina has had her pick and choice among many.  She could have wedded, had she chosen, in high stations.  She has a face and character which win love for her wherever she goes.  I am not here to offer or force my daughter upon any unwilling lover.  If I had not been sure, from what she has told me, and from what I have observed, that you were perfectly honest in your affection for her, I should not have sent for you to-night.  I—­”

She stopped, for Jerome burst out with a passion which startled her.  “Honest!  Oh, my God!  I love her so that I am nothing without her.  I love her more than the whole world, more than my own life!”