I could not reply. I was dumb in admiration, in reverence of virtue and affection of which I felt myself unworthy. A load seemed to fall from my heart, I pressed her lips to mine.
'Cannot Edward be as happy as his Catherine,' she continued; 'we have, at least, enough for the present, and, with frugality, we have enough for years. Come, love, wherefore will you be unhappy? Be you our purser.' And, endeavouring to smile, she gently placed her purse in my hands.
'Good Heavens!' I exclaimed, striking my forehead, and the purse dropped upon the floor; 'am I reduced to this? Never, Catherine!—never! Let me perish in my penury; but crush me not beneath the weight of my own meanness! Death!—what must you think of me?'
'Think of you?' she replied, with a smile, in which affection, playfulness, and sorrow met—'I did not think that you would refuse to be your poor wife's banker.'
'Ah, Catherine!' cried I, 'would that I had half your virtue—half your generosity.'
'The half?' she answered laughingly—'have you not the whole? Did I not give you hand and heart—faults and virtues?—and you, cruel man, have lost the half already! Ungenerous Edward!'
'Oh!' exclaimed I, 'may Heaven render me worthy of such a wife!'
'Come, then,' returned she, 'smile upon your Catherine—it is all over now.'
'What is all over, love?' inquired I.
'Oh, nothing, nothing,' continued she, smiling—'merely the difficulty a young husband has in making his wife acquainted with the state of the firm in which she has become a partner.'