ar rather that you were harsh, and bitter, and
irritable, so that I could feel no compassion for you; in that case I
would have behaved in such a way that you would have been forced to
give me up. But now I don't know what to do; I pity you--yes, I pity
you from the bottom of my heart; but don't forget how I am situated
myself."

It was far from an agreeable conversation that the two held together,
and no fond or kindly words passed between them, as the bride was
preparing the mulled wine. She carried the jug into the next room,
having previously poured out a glass for Adam. When she returned he
drank her health, and when she gave him some more, and, taking some
herself, made her glass ring against his, he said, "Upon my word, you
are much prettier than I thought. After all, I ought not to complain at
being forced to marry you: if it were not for one thing--one thing
alone--I should be quite happy. If I had only seen you seven years ago,
as I see you now, I might have been the most fortunate fellow in the
world. But what am I saying? I feel a stab, as if a knife had pierced
my heart. Have patience with me; I can say no more."

Adam sat down, and covered his eyes with his hands, and then muttered,
"This is my idea, do you see? I wish to tell you something; but not a
word of it to your parents or mine. Give me your hand, as a token that
you will keep my secret."

The bride gave her hand to Adam, who clasped it warmly, and continued,
"I had sent a message to my Martina, that on this very day I would come
to see her. For nearly two years past I have been obliged to go to
church in another village, for spies were always watching me, and for a
whole year I have never been able to speak to my Martina and--my
Joseph; so now I must keep my promise; and yet I would like to give you
a parting kiss; but--I won't, I wont! no! it would be wrong until I am
once more a free man."

"You are honest, and can speak to the purpose," said the bride,
smiling; "and yet people say you are so sulky."

"Very few know anything about me. No one really understands me except
my Martina. She sees me as I really am, and yet I said very little to
her, or she to me, and yet we knew each other thoroughly: she was
quick, and she saw that though I was one of the richest men in the
country, yet I was the poorest in reality. But she shall tell you
about it, for she can talk far better than I can. You don't know how
clever she is, and so good hearted, an