“Yes;—­she is rich.  She has a large fortune.”

“Then, Mr. Finn, you must seek some one else who is equally blessed.”

“Mary, that is untrue,—­that is ill-natured.  You do not mean that. 
Say that you do not mean it.  You have not believed that I loved Miss
Effingham because she was rich.”

“But you have told me that you could love no one who is not rich.”

“I have said nothing of the kind.  Love is involuntary.  It does not often run in a yoke with prudence.  I have told you my history as far as it is concerned with Violet Effingham.  I did love her very dearly.”

“Did love her, Mr. Finn?”

“Yes;—­did love her.  Is there any inconstancy in ceasing to love when one is not loved?  Is there inconstancy in changing one’s love, and in loving again?”

“I do not know,” said Mary, to whom the occasion was becoming so embarrassing that she no longer was able to reply with words that had a meaning in them.

“If there be, dear, I am inconstant.”  He paused, but of course she had not a syllable to say.  “I have changed my love.  But I could not speak of a new passion till I had told the story of that which has passed away.  You have heard it all now, Mary.  Can you try to love me, after that?” It had come at last,—­the thing for which she had been ever wishing.  It had come in spite of her imprudence, and in spite of her prudence.  When she had heard him to the end she was not a whit angry with him,—­she was not in the least aggrieved,—­because he had been lost to her in his love for this Miss Effingham, while she had been so nearly lost by her love for him.  For women such episodes in the lives of their lovers have an excitement which is almost pleasurable, whereas each man is anxious to hear his lady swear that until he appeared upon the scene her heart had been fancy free.  Mary, upon the whole, had liked the story,—­had thought that it had been finely told, and was well pleased with the final catastrophe.  But, nevertheless, she was not prepared with her reply.  “Have you no answer to give me, Mary?” he said, looking up into her eyes.  I am afraid that he did not doubt what would be her answer,—­as it would be good that all lovers should do.  “You must vouchsafe me some word, Mary.”

When she essayed to speak she found that she was dumb.  She could not get her voice to give her the assistance of a single word.  She did not cry, but there was a motion as of sobbing in her throat which impeded all utterance.  She was as happy as earth,—­as heaven could make her; but she did not know how to tell him that she was happy.  And yet she longed to tell it, that he might know how thankful she was to him for his goodness.  He still sat looking at her, and now by degrees he had got her hand in his.  “Mary,” he said, “will you be my wife,—­my own wife?”