Mara was fretted at this question. She supposed Moses had come to tell her of his engagement to Sally, and that this was a kind of preface, and she answered,-- "I don't know why you call it foolish. I was a true friend to Mr. Adams. I saw intellectually that he might have the power of making any reasonable woman happy. I think now that the woman will be fortunate who becomes his wife; but I did not wish to marry him." "Is there anybody you prefer to him, Mara?" said Moses. She started up with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes. "You have no right to ask me that, though you are my brother." "I am not your brother, Mara," said Moses, rising and going toward her, "and that is why I ask you. I feel I have a right to ask you." "I do not understand you," she said, faintly. "I can speak plainer, then. I wish to put in my poor venture. I love you, Mara--not as a brother. I wish you to be my wife, if you will." While Moses was saying these words, Mara felt a sort of whirling in her head, and it grew dark before her eyes; but she had a strong, firm will, and she mastered herself and answered, after a moment, in a quiet, sorrowful tone, "How can I believe this, Moses? If it is true, why have you done as you have this summer?" "Because I was a fool, Mara,--because I was jealous of Mr. Adams,--because I somehow hoped, after all, that you either loved me or that I might make you think more of me through jealousy of another. They say that love always is shown by jealousy." "Not true love, I should think," said Mara. "How _could_ you do so?--it was cruel to her,--cruel to me." "I admit it,--anything, everything you can say. I have acted like a fool and a knave, if you will; but after all, Mara, I do love you. I know I am not worthy of you--never was--never can be; you are in all things a true, noble woman, and I have been unmanly." It is not to be supposed that all this was spoken without accompaniments of looks, movements, and expressions of face such as we cannot give, but such as doubled their power to the parties concerned; and the "I love you" had its usual conclusive force as argument, apology, promise,--covering, like charity, a multitude of sins. Half an hour after, you might have seen a youth and a maiden coming together out of the door of the brown house, and walking arm in arm toward the sea-beach.