"Eh?" said Mark.
Mary explained that a girl really and truly in love was of necessity aware of her condition, because the fermentation, so to speak, took place in the bottle, instead of in the barrel with the bung out. "With men," she concluded, "it often bubbles away."
Mark detected a note of pain.
"My poor little Honeydew," he said, with warm sympathy. "You have suffered. Some day you must tell me about it."
"I cared for a man," she murmured, "who cared nothing for me; but that's over and done with." Then she added, blushing: "Albert knows all about it, and he says he doesn't mind."
"There's no chance of the other——"
"No, no," Mary interrupted. "He married."
"You will make Albert very happy," said Mark; "and you will be happy yourself."
"I am happy now," she replied with conviction.
Mark said no more; but Mary's words gave him pause. She called herself happy. Happy—in what? Only one answer was possible. Inasmuch as she had given in fullest measure to others, happiness had been given to her.