had enough of that to last me for a year or two."
"Then—oh, won't you try to like me again? Nobody will ever love you so much as I do—you said I looked just the same—"
"Yes, but you aren't the same."
"Yes I am. I think really I'm better than I used to be," she said timidly.
"You're not the same," he went on, growing angrier to feel that he had allowed himself to grow angry with her. "You were a girl, and my sweetheart; now you're a widow—that man's widow! You're not the same. The past can't be undone so easily, I assure you."
"Oh," she cried, clenching her hands, "I know there must be something I could say that you would listen to—oh, I wish I could think what! I suppose as it is I'm saying things no other woman ever would have said—but I don't care! I won't be reserved and dignified, and leave everything to you, like girls in books. I lost too much by that before. I will say every single thing I can think of. I will! Dearest, you said you would always love me—you don't care for anyone else. I know you would love me again if
