The directness of her question dumfounded him for the moment; but what she suggested (though it might be selfish in him to agree to it) would be the best thing that could happen to him. So he lied to her, and said:
"Yes, that's what I meant. But, then, to tell you the sober truth, I'm as poor as a church mouse."
He paused. She looked up at him with a sudden fear in her face.
"You're not married?" she asked, "you're not married?" then, breaking off suddenly: "I don't care if you are, I don't! I love you—love you! Nobody would look after you as I would. I don't; no, I don't care."
She drew up closer and closer to him.
"No, I don't mean that I was married," he said. "I meant—what you know —that my life isn't worth, perhaps, a ten-days' purchase."
Her face became pale again.
"You can have my life," she said; "have it just as long as you live, and I'll make you live a year—yes, I'll make you live ten years. Love can do anything; it can do everything. We'll be married to-morrow."
"That's rather difficult," he answered. "You see, you're a Catholic, and I'm a Protestant, and they wouldn't marry us here, I'm afraid; at least not at once, perhaps not at all. You see, I—I've only one lung."
He had never spoken so frankly of his illness before. "Well, we can go over the border into the English province—into Upper Canada," she answered. "Don't you see? It's only a few miles' drive to a village. I can go over one day, get the licence; then, a couple of days after, we can go over together and be married. And then, then—"