“No; I had several.  I thought myself a very unfit wife for you, and that you would be cruelly disappointed to get a low-spirited, sickly, useless girl who did not love or esteem you.  I really thought I was dying, and it would have been wrong to have thought of marrying under such circumstances; and besides, you could not have cared much about me, or you would not have transferred your affection so easily to a woman so very different in every way.”

“Well, it does appear very inconsistent,” said Brandon.  “When my letter is returned from England, you will see two pages of apologies, and reasons why I was so foolish; but I really thought there was somebody whom you liked better, until that very moment when I caught your eye and your expression when I praised our excellent old friend.  Your glance at that time restored me to my allegiance; but the bad news of my affairs next day put love and marriage out of my head, till I came to part from you, and I felt how hard it was.  But I am glad to see that I have not seriously injured Miss Phillips by trifling with her affections.  She has met with her match at last.  I never thought she could have been so well suited.”

“I really think they will get on very comfortably.”

“How could I ever fancy that woman amiable?” said Brandon.  “I thought her really an exceedingly agreeable and clever woman in Derbyshire:  when I went out shopping with her on that memorable day, I saw spots on the sun; and the day before yesterday, at Wiriwilta, she appeared to be quite insufferable.  I Cannot think enough of my own good luck; I might have been her husband by this time instead of being your lover, which is much pleasanter.  What an insipid slow life it would have been, though Grant, I dare say, looks forward to it with complacency.  He always used to look down on the colonial girls that our neighbours married, and threatened to go home for a thoroughly accomplished wife; and now one of that stamp has come out to him, and saved him time and money.  And Miss Phillips looks far more kindly on him than she ever did on me.”

“I do not call it merely good luck,” said Elsie; “I think our affairs are in wiser hands than our own.”

“And that I should be grateful for that wise guidance, instead of idly congratulating myself that things have turned out so well,” said Brandon.  “I only know that I feel grateful, though I am in want of words to express it.  A man living alone, as I have done for so many years, feels at a loss to speak about these matters.  I need a dear good woman like you by my side to teach me to open my heart, for I know I never will be ashamed to speak to you as I feel—­though I might stand in some awe of a poetess, too.”

“Don’t speak about my poetry,” said Elsie.

“Am I never to hear that song of Wiriwilta, in which I play such a conspicuous part?” said Brandon.

“Oh, I have forgotten it, for the children got tired of it, and asked for new songs and stories; it was never written down, and I never can recollect my own verses.  It shows that they are not genuine poetry, for I have a tenacious memory for anything good of other people’s.  So, as it is lost for ever, you may imagine it to have been as beautiful as you please.”