He told Violet that he had been earning money to take care of her, and now, if she would be his wife, they might still live in the cottage and be happy all their days.
But Alfred's father was proud and ambitious, and would not be satisfied to have his son marry a poor berry girl. This Violet knew well enough; so she never told Alfred that she loved him, but only said "No" to his offers, at which he felt so badly he threatened to shoot himself.
But instead of this, he concluded afterwards to marry some one else—a lady, rich, and accomplished, and gay, who made the great house merrier than it had ever been before she went to it.
There were balls, and parties, and concerts, strangers coming and going constantly; there was no such thing as quiet.
Violet was unwilling to exchange for this her pleasant, sunny little cottage; the vines and the elm tree and crowded garden beds had grown so dear to her, and the very birds and squirrels seemed to know and love Violet, and sing and chip to her, "Do stay."
How could she refuse? Who would take care of poor Toady if she went? and who would feed the old faded cat lying now on the doorstep half asleep, opening half an eye sometimes to watch her kittens play, and then going off into a doze again like a worn-out grandmother, as she had become.
Who will believe it?—she was the same kitten that followed Violet into the wood about the time our story began, and wasn't old enough then to catch a cricket or keep from drowning in the brook.