“Casimer will not marry, dear; he is too generous to ask such a sacrifice,” began Helen, but Amy cried indignantly,—
“It is no sacrifice; I’m rich. What do I care for his poverty?”
“His religion!” hinted Helen, anxiously.
“It need not part us; we can believe what we will. He is good; why mind whether he is Catholic or Protestant.”
“But a Pole, Amy, so different in tastes, habits, character, and beliefs. It is a great risk to marry a foreigner; races are so unlike.”
“I don’t care if he is a Tartar, a Calmuck, or any of the other wild tribes; I love him, he loves me, and no one need object if I don’t.”
“But, dear, the great and sad objection still remains—his health. He just said he had but a little while to live.”
Amy’s angry eyes grew dim, but she answered, with soft earnestness,—
“So much the more need of me to make that little while happy. Think how much he has suffered and done for others; surely I may do something for him. Oh, Nell, can I let him die alone and in exile, when I have both heart and home to give him?”
Helen could say no more; she kissed and comforted the faithful little soul, feeling all the while such sympathy and tenderness that she wondered at herself, for with this interest in the love of another came a sad sense of loneliness, as if she was denied the sweet experience that every woman longs to know.