"We will be married next week, Nanna," he said; "this week--to-morrow, if you will. It has come to this: I must leave Barbara, and there is a house empty close to the quay, and it shall be our home, Nanna; for I have sixty pounds, my dear woman, and at last, at last--" Before he reached this point he was sensible of some chill or dissent, but he was not prepared for Nanna's answer: "David, why do you talk of marrying? It is ever that. I will not marry." "Not yet, Nanna? Is it too soon? But why for a dead man will you keep me waiting?" "I think not of any dead man." "Is it Vala? Vala would rejoice in our happiness." "I will not marry--no, not any man living." "Why did you say that you loved me?" "I do love you." "No; you do not." He put her gently away from him, and looked at her with a somber sternness. "You do not love me," he continued. "If you did, you would put me first; you would say, 'I will be your wife.' You would delight to make me happy--I, who have never been happy but in sharing your joys and sorrows." "O David, I do love you!" "Then be my wife." "I cannot! I cannot!" "Then you love me as light, vain women love: to make slaves of men, and bring them back and back to be hurt. It is not to be so with me. No, indeed! Farewell, Nanna." His voice failed him. He turned toward the door, and for a moment Nanna could not realize that he was actually bidding her a final farewell. When she did she flew to his side, and arrested his hand as he was opening the door. "Come back! Come back, David!" she entreated. "You are all wrong; you are very cruel to me. If you leave me it will break my heart! It will be the last blow, David. It is the very truth." He hesitated enough to make Nanna weep with passionate distress, and this emotion he was not able to bear. He took her within his arm again, led her to a chair, and sat down at her side, and as he kissed the tears from her face said: "If indeed you do love me, Nanna--" "_If_ I do love you!" she interrupted. "I love none but you. You are heart of my heart and soul of my soul. I hear you coming when you are half a mile away. I have no joy but when you are beside me. I shall die of grief if you leave me in anger. I would count it heaven and earth to be your wife, but I dare not! I dare not!" She was sobbing piteously when she ended this protestation, and David comforted her with caresses and tender words. "What fears you, Nanna?" he asked. "Oh, my dear, what fears you?" "This is what I fear," she answered, freeing herself from his embrace, and looking steadily at him. "This is what I fear, David. If we were married I might have another child--I might have many children." Then he clasped her hand tightly, for he began to see where Nanna was leading him, as she continued with slow solemnity: