He felt keenly how unwelcome the news must be to the girl who had loved him and hoped to be his bride, but he assured himself that she would soon be consoled by the attentions of other lovers. “I am not much of a prize for any girl, if it were not for father’s money, anyway. She will soon forget me,” he thought, with unwonted seriousness, for at the thought of wedding little Berry, all the follies of his youth rose up blackly before his mind’s eye, with a poignant sense of regret. As he strolled slowly backward to the mansion, in the late afternoon amid the sweet sights and sounds and perfume of spring at her loveliest, he caught himself wondering “if the old man would ‘cut up very rough’ over the mésalliance he was going to make,” and if his dainty sisters would turn up their pretty noses at his humble bride. “It is very likely they may, but if so I must face the music and accept my fate. One thing is certain. I would not give up my bonnie bride for the whole Bonair fortune, although I should like a generous slice of it for my bride’s sake as well as my own. Heigh-ho, he may cut me off with a shilling, though, and then I shall only get the modest portion from my mother. Without that we should have to live on bread and cheese and kisses, my love and I.” He threw back his handsome head with a happy laugh, and went his way, whistling a plaintive Irish air that seemed to chime with his mood: “My fortunes are not what for your sake I could wish them to be; My wealth consists of but a heart that beats alone for thee; And when I ask you to be mine, As I shall surely do, This is the song I shall sing to you: “My heart for your heart Is all I can give; My love for your love As long as we live; My smile for your smile, Until life is o’er; These give me, sweetheart, I ask nothing more.” With a heart elate with love and joy and triumph, he entered the house and sought Rosalind, but she was nowhere to be seen. He sent up a servant to her room to ask for an interview, eager to have the painful task over that he might give himself up wholly to the happiness that sent his pulses bounding joyously along his veins. The servant came back quickly to say that Miss Montague was in bed with a sick headache, and had desired not to be disturbed. With that he began to feel a little remorseful, saying to himself: “Poor Rose! no doubt she has wept herself into a headache over losing me. I wish she had not loved so well! It makes me feel badly because I know I don’t deserve one of her tears.” He was interrupted here by a visit from the detective who came, as he had done several times before, to report that he had made no headway with the case.