other in a palace. I
love you for your own sake, Connor; but it appears you don't think so."

Woman can never bear to have her love undervalued, nor the moral dignity
of a passion which can sacrifice all worldly and selfish considerations
to its own purity and attachment, unappreciated. When she uttered the
last words, therefore, tears of bitter sorrow, mingled with offended
pride, came to her aid. She sobbed for some moments, and again went on
to reproach him with forming so unfair an estimate of her affection.

"I repeat that I loved you for yourself only, Connor, and think of what
I would feel, if you refused to spend your life in a cottage with me. If
I thought you wished to marry me, not because I am Una O'Brien, but the
daughter of a wealthy man, my heart would break, and if I thought you
were not true--minded, and pure--hearted, and honorable, I would rather
be dead than united to you at all."

"I love you so well, and so much, Una, that I doubt I'm not worthy of
you--and it's fear of seeing you brought down to daily labor that's
crushing and breaking my heart."

"But, dear Connor--what is there done by any cottager's wife that I
don't do every day of my life? Do you think my mother lets me pass my
time in idleness, or that I myself could bear to be unemployed even if
she did; I can milk, make butter, spin, sew, wash, knit, and clean a
kitchen; why, you have no notion," she added, with a smile, "what a
clever cottager's wife I'd make!"

"Oh, Una," said Connor, now melting into tenderness greater than he had
ever before felt; "Una dear, it's useless--it's useless--I can't, no,
I couldn't--and I will not live without you, even if we were to beg
together--but what is to be done?"

"Now, while my brother John is at home, is the time to propose it to
my father and mother who look upon him with eyes of such affection and
delight that I am half inclined to think their consent may be gained."

"Maybe, darling, his consent will be as hard to gain as their own."

"Now," she replied, fondly, "only you're a hard--hearted thing that's
afraid to live in a cottage with me, I could tell you some good news--or
rather you doubt me--and fear that I wouldn't live in one with you."

A kiss was the reply, after which he said--

"With you, my dear Una, now that you're satisfied, I would live and die
in a prison--with you, with you--in whatever state of life we may be
placed, with you, but without you--never, I could not--I c