Like all bashful men who have momentarily given way to impatience, Charles Heathoote was over eager to obtain his companion's good will, and so he dashed at once into a full confession of all the difficulties that beset, and all the cares that surrounded him. O'Shea had never known accurately, till now, the amount of May Leslie's fortune, nor how completely she was the mistress of her own fate. Neither had he ever heard of that strange provision in the will which imposed a forfeit upon her if unwilling to accept Charles Heathcote as her husband,--a condition which he shrewdly judged to be the very surest of all ways to prevent their marriage. “And so you released her?” cried he, as Heathoote finished his narrative. “Released her! No. I never considered that she was bound. How could I?” “Upon my conscience,” muttered the O'Shea, “it is a hard case--a mighty hard case--to see one's way in; for if, as you say, it's not a worthy part for a man to compel a girl to be his wife just because her father put it in his will, it's very cruel to lose her only because she has a fine property.” “It is for no such reason,” broke in Heathoote, half angrily. “I was unwilling--I am unwilling--that May Leslie should be bound by a contract she never shared in. “That's all balderdash!” cried O'Shea, with energy. “What do you mean, sir?” retorted the other, passionately. “What I mean is this,” resumed he: “that it's all balderdash to talk of the hardship of doing things that we never planned out for ourselves. Sure, ain't we doing them every moment of our lives? Ain't I doing something because you contrived it? and ain't you doing something else because I left it in your way?” “It comes to this, then, that you 'd marry a girl who did n't care for you, if the circumstances were such as to oblige her to accept you?” “Not absolutely,--not unreservedly,” replied O'Shea. “Well, what is the reservation? Let us hear it.” “Her fortune ought to be suitable.” “Oh, this is monstrous!” “Hear me out before you condemn me. In marriage, as in everything else, you must take it out in malt or in meal: don't fancy that you 're going to get love and money too. It's only in novels such luck exists.” “I'm very glad I do not share your sentiments,” said Charles, sternly. “They 're practical, anyway. But now to another point. Here we are, sitting by the fire in all frankness and candor. Answer me fairly two questions: Have you given up the race?” “Yes.” “Well, then, have you any objection if I enter for the stakes myself?” “You! Do you mean that you would propose for May Leslie?” “I do; and, what's more, I don't despair of success, either.”