Maynooth."

Susan rose, and her eyes flashed with an indignant sense of the
cold-blooded manner in which he advised her to select another husband.
She was an illiterate girl, but the purity of her feeling supplied the
delicacy which reading and a knowledge of more refined society would
have given her.

"Is it from your lips, Denis," she said, "that I hear sich a mane and
low-minded an advice? Or do you think that with my weak, and I now see,
foolish heart, settled upon you, I could turn round and fix my love upon
the first that might ax me? Denis, you promised before God to be mine,
and mine only; you often said and swore that you loved me above any
human being; but I now see that you only intended to lead me into sin
and disgrace, for indeed, and before God I don't think--I don't--I
don't--believe that you ever loved me."

A burst of grief, mingled with indignation and affliction, followed the
words she had uttered. Denis felt himself called on for a vindication,
and he was resolved to give it.

"Susan," he returned, "your imagination is erroneous. By all the
classical authors that ever were written, you are antipodialry opposed
to facts. What harm is there, seeing that you and I can never be joined
in wedlock--what harm is there, I say, in recommending you another
husb--"

Susan would hear no more. She gathered up her stocking and ball of
thread, placed them in her apron, went into her father's house, shut and
bolted the door, and gave way to violent grief. All this occurred in a