“I cannot do it,” she replied at last, speaking very hoarsely, not looking at him, not even addressing herself to him.

“Mary!”

“Larry, I cannot do it.  I have tried, but I cannot do it.  O Larry, dear Larry, do not ask me again.  Larry, I have no heart to give.  Another man has it all.”

“Is it so?” She bowed her head in token of assent.  “Is it that young parson,” exclaimed Larry, in anger.

“It is not.  But, Larry, you must ask no questions now.  I have told you my secret that all this might be set at rest.  But if you are generous, as I know you are, you will keep my secret, and will ask no questions.  And, Larry, if you are unhappy, so am I. If your heart is sore, so is mine.  He knows nothing of my love, and cares nothing for me.”

“Then throw him aside.”

She smiled and shook her head.  “Do you think I would not if I could?  Why do you not throw me aside?”

“Oh, Mary!”

“Cannot I love as well as you?  You are a man, and have the liberty to speak of it.  Though I cannot return it, I can be proud of your love and feel grateful to you.  I cannot tell mine.  I cannot think of it without blushing.  But I can feel it, and know it, and be as sure that it has trodden me down and got the better of me as you can.  But you can go out into the world and teach yourself to forget”

“I must go away from here then.”

“You have your business and your pleasures, your horses and your fields and your friends.  I have nothing,—­but to remain here and know that I have disobliged all those that love me.  Do you think, Larry, I would not go and be your wife if I could?  I have told you all, Larry, and now do not ask me again.”

“Is it so?”

“Yes;—­it is so.”

“Then I shall cut it all.  I shall sell Chowton and go away.  You tell me I have my horses and my pleasures!  What pleasures?  I know nothing of my horses,—­not whether they are lame or sound.  I could not tell you of one of them whether he is fit to go to-morrow.  Business!  The place may farm itself for me, for I can’t stay there.  Everything sickens me to look at it.  Pleasures indeed!”

“Is that manly, Larry?”

“How can a man be manly when the manliness is knocked out of him?  A man’s courage lies in his heart; but if his heart is broken where will his courage be then?  I couldn’t hold up my head up here any more,—­and I shall go.”

“You must not do that,” she said, getting up and laying hold of his arm.

“But I must do it”

“For my sake you must stay here, Larry;—­so that I may not have to think that I have injured you so deeply.  Larry, though I cannot be your wife I think I could die of sorrow if you were always unhappy.  What is a poor girl that you should grieve for her in that way?  I think if I were a man I would master my love better than that.”  He shook his head and faintly strove to drag his arm from out of her grasp.  “Promise me that you will take a year to think of it before you go.”