Hard, unfeeling words, dictated by passion. Love is tender, generous; Passion, harsh and selfish. They sit opposite at the same feast. Love surrenders to the intoxication of the scene, grateful to be allowed there. Passion glances scornfully at foolish Love and considers his presence at the banquet a compliment to the giver. Love treasures the crumbs. Passion wastes basketfuls.
"So far, so good," Gill murmured. "I'll go to Jim Harker to-morrow."
And without one tender thought for the woman, who even then, all a-tremble with delight at being his betrothed, was uttering a prayer for him, he threw himself on the bed and went asleep.
Lizzī did not sleep. Gill's declaration of love, as she regarded his proposition of marriage, had opened the door of the future, and her eyes were fastened on the scenes that imagination conjured up beyond the threshold. She lay awake looking at them, all beaming in the sunlight.
"Squire, can you keep a secret?"
James Harker, shoemaker to Three-Sisters, sat in front of his shop, smoking, when Gill addressed him. The title flattered him, coming from so influential a person. He was a candidate for the office of Justice of the Peace. At the polls on the following Tuesday—the McAnay ball was on Wednesday—it would be decided whether Squire Parsons should retain the right to issue warrants and summon law-breakers before him, or have only the dignity of the title, while James Harker, formerly shoemaker, occupied the office and received the fees.
Jim looked piqued by Gill's question.
"Keep a secret? Humph! do yer take me fer a woman?"
Gill laughed and stroked his mustache. "I'll bet you ten dollars if I was to tell you a secret that you couldn't keep it an hour."
"Ten dollars is skeerce with me, Gill; but I'll hev ter go yer thet much anyhow."