did feel strongly for him.

Given, then, a man of very great susceptibility, and a very high sense
of honor, and what would he do?

Why, in the first place, as a matter of course, his too susceptible
heart would involve him in many tendernesses; and, if he was as
reckless and thoughtless as Jack, he would be drawn into inconvenient
entanglements; and, perhaps, like Jack, before he knew what he was
about, he might find himself engaged to three different ladies, and in
love with a fourth.

In the second place, his high sense of honor would make him eager to do
his duty by them all. Of course, this would be impossible. Yet Jack had
done his best. He had offered immediate marriage to Miss Phillips, and
had proposed an elopement to Number Three. This shows that his impulses
led him to blind acts which tended in a vague way to do justice to the
particular lady who happened for the time being to be in his mind.

And so Jack had gone blundering on until at last he found himself at
the mercy of the widow. The others had given him up in scorn. She would
not give him up. He was bound fast. He felt the bond. In the midst of
this his susceptibility drove him on further, and, instead of trying to
get out of his difficulties, he had madly thrust himself further into
them.

And there he was--doomed--looking forward to the fateful Tuesday.

He felt the full terror of his doom, but did not think of trying to
evade it. He was bound. His word was given. He considered it
irrevocable. Flight? He thought no more of that than he thought of
committing a murder. He would actually have given all that he had, and
more too, for the sake of getting rid of the widow; but he would not be
what he considered a sneak, even for that.

There was, therefore, no help for it. He was doomed. Tuesday! June
20th! St. Malachi's! Old Fletcher! Launched into matrimony! Hence his
despair.

During the intervening days I did not see him. I did not visit him, and
he did not come near me. Much as I sympathized with him in his woes, I
knew that I could do nothing and say nothing. Besides, I had my own
troubles. Every time I went to O'Halloran's, Marion's shyness, and
reserve, and timidity, grew more marked. Every time that I came home, I
kept bothering myself as to the possible cause of all this, and
tormented myself as to the reason of such a change in her.

One day I called at the Bertons'. I didn't see Louie. I asked after
her, and they told me she was not