I do not say so harshly,
Martin--has no character, no name. Were you free you could not
marry her. There is a mystery about her, and mystery usually
means shame. A Dobree could not make an adventuress his wife.
Then you have seen so little of her. Three times, since the
week you were there in March! What is that compared to the
years we have spent together? It is impossible that in your
heart of hearts you should love her more than me.

"I have been trying to think what you would do if all is
broken off between us. We could not keep this a secret in
Guernsey, and everybody would blame you. I will not ask you to
think of my mortification at being jilted, for people would
call it that. I could outlive that. But what are you to do? We
cannot go on again as we used to do. I must speak plainly
about it. Your practice is not sufficient to maintain the
family in a proper position for the Dobrees; and if I go to
live alone at the new house, as I must do, what is to become
of my uncle and aunt? I have often considered this, and have
been glad the difficulty was settled by our marriage. Now
every thing will be unsettled again.

"I did not intend to say any thing about myself; but, O
Martin! you do not know the blank that it will be to me. I
have been so happy since you asked me to be your wife. It was
so pleasant to think that I should live all my life in
Guernsey, and yet not be doomed to the empty, vacant lot of an
unmarried woman. You think that perhaps Johanna is happy
single? She is content--good women ought to be content; but, I
tell you, I would gladly exchange her contentment for Aunt
Dobree's troubles, with her pride and happiness in you. I have
seen her troubles clearly; and I say, Martin, I would give all
Johanna's calm, colorless peace for her delight in her son.

"Then I cannot give up the thought of our home, just finished
and so pretty. It was so pleasant this afternoon before you
came in with your dreadful thunder-bolt. I was thinking what a
good wife I would be to you; and how, in my own house, I
should never be tempted into those tiresome tempers you have
seen in me sometimes. It was your father often who made me
angry, and I visited it upon you, because you are so
good-tempered. That was foolish of me. You could not know