Before the end of the fortnight he made a clean breast of his love and of his scruples. He chose an occasion when they had strolled far along the shore and were resting among picturesque rocks overlooking the ocean. She listened shyly, as became a woman, but once or twice while he was speaking she looked up at him with unmistakable ardor and joy in her brown eyes which let him know that his feelings were reciprocated before she confessed it by speech. He was so determined to make clear to her what was in store for her if she accepted him that without waiting for an answer to his burning avowal he proceeded to point out and to reiterate that the scantiest kind of living so far as creature comforts were concerned was all which he could promise either for the present or for the future. When, having satisfied his conscience, he ceased speaking, Edna turned toward him and with a sigh of sentiment swept back the low bands of profuse dark hair from her temples as though by the gesture she were casting all anxieties and hindrances to the winds. “How strange it is!” she murmured. “The last thing which I supposed could happen to me in coming here was that I should marry. But I am in love--in love with you; and to turn one’s back on that blessing would be to squander the happiness of existence.” She was silent a moment. Then she continued gravely, “As you know, I was engaged--married once before. How long ago it seems! I thought once, I believed once, that I could never love again. Dear Horace, how wrapped up we were in each other! But I was a child then, and--and it seems as though all I know of the real world has been learned since. I must not distrust--I will not refuse the opportunity to make you happy and to become happier myself by resisting the impulse of my heart. I love you--Morgan.” “Thank God! But are you sure, Edna, that you have counted the cost of marrying me?” “Oh, yes! We shall manage very well, I think,” she answered, speaking slowly and contracting a little her broad brow in the attempt to argue dispassionately. “It isn’t as if you had nothing. You have fifteen hundred dollars and your salary, nearly two thousand more. Five years ago that would have seemed to me wealth, and now, of course, I understand that it isn’t; and five years ago I suppose I would have married a man if I loved him no matter how poor he was. But to-day I am wiser--that’s the word, isn’t it? For I recognize that I might not be happy as a mere drudge, and to become one would conflict with what I feel that I owe myself in the way of--shall I call it civilizing and self-respecting comfort? So you see if you hadn’t a cent, I might feel it was more sensible and better for us both to wait or to give each other up. But it isn’t a case of that at all. We’ve plenty to start on--plenty, and more than I’m accustomed to; and by the time we need more, if we do need more, you will be famous.”