"Don't you see, Lizzī? I have been in love with you for a long time and gave mother a hint to learn her opinion, and then before the reply came, my heart broke from its bonds, and I told you my love."
"Yes?" said Lizzī, interrogatively.
"And then I got this letter, threatening to disinherit me, as my father directed I should be if I married without my mother's consent."
"Yes?" again the plaintive interrogation. Then by a sudden great effort she overcame the doubt that had for the moment shackled her. She loosed his grasp, picked up the basket, and, standing erect with one foot advanced, a queen abdicating a throne, said:
"Write to her you are free."
"But I will not."
His reply was positive. He stood before her, blocking her way, himself aroused to earnestness that needed no affectation, for it was honest. He had just discovered how unselfish a woman's love can be, and reckoned upon it as the last means of retaining his promised wife.
"See," and he tore into bits the beautiful letter. "Thus do I leave my mother for you, Elizabeth; but it will break her heart, it will shorten her life."
His head drooped, his chin touched his chest. Lizzī was touched by his grief, and for him had great compassion. She still held the basket on her left bended arm. With her free hand she gave his forehead a quivering pressure.
"Wait, John, till your mother dies; then I will be your wife."