"Don't!" she cried, laughing in a helpless sort of way. "Do sit down, you look so funny like that." He collapsed, and they sat opposite to each other like two tailors, whilst Fanny dried her eyes and finished up her few remaining sobs. A brake full of trippers passed on the road near by, yelling that romantic and delightful song "Bedelia! I wants to steal yer." "_They're_ happy," said Fanny, listening with a rapt expression as though she were listening to the music of the heavenly choir. "I wish I was them." "Fanny," said her lover, ignoring this comprehensive wish, "why can't you care for me?" "I do care for you." "Yes, but why can't you marry me?" "We're too poor." "I'll be making lots of money soon." "How much?" "Oh, four or five hundred a year." "That's not enough," said Fanny with a sigh, "not _nearly_ enough." Leavesley gazed at the mercenary beauty before him. Had he miscalculated her? was she after all like other girls, a daughter of the horse leech? "I'd marry you to-morrow," resumed she, "if you hadn't a penny--only for father." "What about him?" "I must help him. I must marry a rich man or not marry at all. There----" "Do you care for him more than me?" "Yes." Leavesley sighed, then he broke out: "But it's dreadful, he never would ask you to make such a sacrifice----" "Father?" "Yes." "_He!_ why, he doesn't care a button. He believes in people marrying whoever they like. He'd _like_ me to marry you. He said only the other day you'd make a good husband because you didn't gamble or drink, and you had no taste for going to law." Leavesley's face brightened, he got on his hands and knees again preparatory to drawing nearer. "Sit down," said Fanny, drawing away. "But if you love me," said the lover, collapsing again into the sitting posture. "I don't." "What!" "Not enough to marry you. I could if I let myself go, but I've just stopped myself in time. I can't ever marry you." "But, look here----" "Yes?" "Suppose you do marry a rich man, I don't see how it will benefit your father." "Won't it! I'll never marry a man who won't help father, and he wants help. Oh! if you only knew our affairs," said Miss Lambert, picking a daisy and looking at it, and apparently addressing it, "the hair would stand up on the top of your head." "Are they so bad as all that, Fanny?" "Bad isn't the word," replied Miss Lambert, plucking the petals from the daisy one by one. "He loves me--he loves me not--he loves me--he loves me not--he loves me." "Who?" "You." He got on his hands and knees again. "Sit _down_." "But, see here, listen to me: are you really serious in what you have just said?" "I am." "Well, promise me one thing: you won't marry any one just yet." "What do you mean by just yet?" "Oh, till I have a chance, till I strike oil, till I begin to make a fortune!" "How long will that be?" asked Miss Lambert cautiously. "I don't know," replied the unhappy painter.