ose that he waited ten
years for you."

"I suppose he did."

"And, if he is the same man as he was when he went away, I suppose his
love is the same?"

"Then how _could_ he say such things?"

"And, if he is the same, and his love is the same, isn't it possible
that somebody else is different?"

"Now, Jenny Crow, you are going to say it's all my fault?"

"Not all, Nelly. Something has come between you."

"It's the money. Oh, Jenny, if you ever marry, marry a poor man, and
then he can't fling it in your face that you are poorer than he."

"No; it can't be the money, Nelly, for the money is his, and yet it
hasn't changed him. And, Nelly, isn't it a good thing in a rich man not
to turn his back on his old poor comrades--not to think because he has
been in the sun that people are black who are only in the shade--not
to pretend to have altered his skin because his coat has changed--isn't
it?"

"I see what you mean. You mean that I've driven my husband away with my
bad temper."

"No; not that; but Nelly--dear old Nell--think what you're doing. Take
warning from one who once made shipwreck of her own life. Think no man
common who loves you--no matter what his ways are, or his manners, or
his speech. Love makes the true nobility. It ennobles him who loves you
and you who are beloved. Cling to it--prize it--do not throw it away.
Money can not buy it, nor fame nor rank atone for it. When a woman is
loved she is a queen, and he who loves her is her king."

Mrs. Quiggin was weeping behind her hands by this time, but she lifted
swollen eyes to say, "I see; you would have me go to him and submit, and
explain, and beg his pardon. 'Dear David, I didn't marry you for your
money----' No," leaping to her feet, "I'll scrub my fingers to the bone
first."

"But, Nelly----"

"Say no more, Jenny Crow, We're hot-headed people, both of us, and we'll
quarrel."

Then Jenny's solemn manner was gone in an instant. She snapped her
fingers, kicked up one leg a little, and said lightly, "Very well; and
now let us have some dinner,"----

Meantime Lovibond was hearing the other side of the story from Captain
Davy at Forte Ann. On the way there he had heard of the separation from
the boy, Willie Quarrie, a lugubrious Manx lad, eighteen years old, with
a face as white as a haddock and as grim as a gannet.

"Aw, terr'ble doings, sir, terr'ble, terr'ble!" moaned Willie. "Young
Mistress Quiggin ateing her heart out at Castle Mona, and Cap