“What then can I do, my darling Una?  If your father and mother won’t consent—­as I fear they won’t—­am I to bring you into the miserable cabin of a day laborer? for to this the son of a man so wealthy as my father is, must sink.  No, Una dear, I have sworn never to bring you to poverty, and I will not.”

“Connor,” she replied somewhat gravely, “I thought you had formed a different opinion of me.  You know but little of your own Una’s heart, if you think she wouldn’t live with you in a cabin a thousand and a thousand times sooner than she would live with any other in a palace.  I love you for your own sake, Connor; but it appears you don’t think so.”

Woman can never bear to have her love undervalued, nor the moral dignity of a passion which can sacrifice all worldly and selfish considerations to its own purity and attachment, unappreciated.  When she uttered the last words, therefore, tears of bitter sorrow, mingled with offended pride, came to her aid.  She sobbed for some moments, and again went on to reproach him with forming so unfair an estimate of her affection.

“I repeat that I loved you for yourself only, Connor, and think of what I would feel, if you refused to spend your life in a cottage with me.  If I thought you wished to marry me, not because I am Una O’Brien, but the daughter of a wealthy man, my heart would break, and if I thought you were not true—­minded, and pure—­hearted, and honorable, I would rather be dead than united to you at all.”

“I love you so well, and so much, Una, that I doubt I’m not worthy of you—­and it’s fear of seeing you brought down to daily labor that’s crushing and breaking my heart.”

“But, dear Connor—­what is there done by any cottager’s wife that I don’t do every day of my life?  Do you think my mother lets me pass my time in idleness, or that I myself could bear to be unemployed even if she did; I can milk, make butter, spin, sew, wash, knit, and clean a kitchen; why, you have no notion,” she added, with a smile, “what a clever cottager’s wife I’d make!”

“Oh, Una,” said Connor, now melting into tenderness greater than he had ever before felt; “Una dear, it’s useless—­it’s useless—­I can’t, no, I couldn’t—­and I will not live without you, even if we were to beg together—­but what is to be done?”

“Now, while my brother John is at home, is the time to propose it to my father and mother who look upon him with eyes of such affection and delight that I am half inclined to think their consent may be gained.”

“Maybe, darling, his consent will be as hard to gain as their own.”

“Now,” she replied, fondly, “only you’re a hard—­hearted thing that’s afraid to live in a cottage with me, I could tell you some good news—­or rather you doubt me—­and fear that I wouldn’t live in one with you.”

A kiss was the reply, after which he said—­

“With you, my dear Una, now that you’re satisfied, I would live and die in a prison—­with you, with you—­in whatever state of life we may be placed, with you, but without you—­never, I could not—­I could not——­”