"Yes, I have a regret," said Betty, laying her hand upon his shoulder and looking wistfully at him. "I give you everything—my present, my future, and my past; but you—I know you love me now, but I am not the one you loved first. That is what makes me sad. I want your past as well as your present and future. Perhaps you think I didn't see. You supposed, when you were so miserable after Abby went away, that I didn't understand! Many and many a night have I lain awake, sorrowing over your sorrow and my inability to help you."
"Listen to me, Betty dear. My feeling for your cousin, though pure and tender, was as nothing compared to what I have for you. Even when I was most under the spell of her beauty and sweetness, I thought of you as one who might well stir the pulse and thrill the heart of any man not made armor-proof by love for another."
"But you did love Cousin Abby?" she questioned with another wistful, half-timid look.
"Yes, I did, in a dreamy, poetical way. Or, rather, I was in love with love and romance, and all that, and she seemed the embodiment of beauty and poetry. But I never touched even the outer edges of her susceptibilities, and it was this complete unresponsiveness that healed my wound, even before I was aware. A man, warm-blooded, ardent, as I am, must have an answering love to keep his own alive. There was nothing in that first romantic feeling that need give you a pang of regret. It was a mere boyish fancy; this, dear, is the love of my manhood. And in fact, my darling, I don't believe there is so much as a kiss to choose between your love for me and mine for you. If there is," he added humorously, "this will restore the balance," and he kissed her fondly. "And now, my dear girl," he went on, speaking soberly, but with a glad light in his eyes, "I have great news for you; but first, let me ask, by what name do you propose to be known when we are married?"
"Well," exclaimed the girl in some bewilderment, "I said awhile ago that happiness had addled your brains; but I really did not suspect the trouble to be so serious as this. By what name, pray, should I be known but that of Mistress Betsy Dudley—ugly though it be? Oh, I see!" she cried, thinking she understood his meaning. "You don't like the name Betsy. Neither do I. It's perfectly horrid; and it is my standing grievance against my parents that they saddled upon their innocent babe so uncouth a prenomen. If father did wish to honor his mother by endowing his first-born with the name, why could he not have softened it into Betty, or Bettina, or Bessie, or, better still, have christened me Elizabeth, instead of insisting, as he always does, that I shall be called Betsy? I'll tell you what," she added archly, "when I'm married, I shall insist that everybody shall address me as Elizabeth. Isn't that more to your taste, my lord?"
"Elizabeth what?" he persisted.
"Upon my word, I begin to think you really are daft! Why, Elizabeth Dudley, of course," she said, flushing and looking shy and embarrassed; "that is, unless you mean for me to wed some saner man than this Abner Dudley, Esquire," she added saucily.
"Would not the name Elizabeth or Betty or Betsy Logan suit you better?" asked her lover, who then proceeded to tell her all.
She was greatly astonished, and rejoiced to learn of his brightened worldly prospects; but when he told her his full name, her countenance changed.
He was too absorbed to note this, and went on: "The question now is, my dearest, how soon will you marry me? I need you now. Every day, every hour, I long for you, my pet. So I shall speak to your father at once. For some time he has been rather cool with me—ever since last summer, when I argued with him about Barton Stone's views. But he's too just and reasonable to refuse me your hand, upon no other objection than that I did not side with him in a church quarrel. I will see him to-morrow, and——"