"Yes, so may a woman. I've changed mine, Adam. I'll never marry thee."
The words flew out without any will of mine.
"Why, Eve, thee is joking!"
"No, Friend Adam. I am in downright earnest. Our engagement has been a mistake. It is bounden upon me to say so! I wish thee well, Adam, but there's not one spark of love for thee in my heart—not one spark!"
"Oh, Eve, Eve!"
"I have deceived thee, Adam. I beg thy pardon. If thee had enlisted as thee said thee would, I should have kept my word if it had killed me. Now, as long as thee breaks thy own promise, how can thee hold me to mine!"
Adam gazed at me in a stupor. What I had said was not to be comprehended in a minute.
"But Eve, thee wouldn't break thy friend's heart?"
He looked as if the blow had crushed him. I wanted to sink into the earth.
I deeply pitied the man I had wronged. But what was spoken was spoken, and even if I could I would not have taken it back.
When I told father of it he was sorely displeased.
"He had thy promise, daughter—thy faithful promise!"
How could father look me in the face and say that!
"Father," said I, earnestly. "I believe I was led."
Adam lingered about the house, and besought and beset me till I was nearly wild. Even my pity was spent at last, and I entreated him to summon all his manhood and go away.
Then came out the true secret of his persistence. He had used my capital in speculation and lost half of it. If I would not marry him, what would become of him, for he could not pay it back.
So it was not love, but debt that had agonized him so! Thee may know I was only too glad to forgive the coward what he owed. I heard nothing more about lacerated affections; and the cringing fellow went away very well pleased. Then my heart danced for joy. The world might say what it pleased. I was free, and even my father was heartily glad of the turn things had taken.
Thus ends the first chapter of my preachment ; and if thee doesn't see the moral, it is this:
"A bad promise is better broken than kept."
The second chapter of my story is very short; I mean that part of it which will bear the telling.
Friend Edward came home from the army. I was very shy about letting him see how glad I was, for I had no more right to any emotions now than I had when he went away, though for a different reason.
"Why, Eve, no welcome for me?"
"Everybody can't be as pleased as Miriam, I suppose," said I; and I wished next minute I could bite my tongue out for its foolishness!
"Thee doesn't mean to say thee believes that silly gossip?" said Friend Edward, reproachfully, looking as bright, nevertheless, as a June sunbeam.
"Why, why, thee knows its no concern of mine," stammered I, like an idiot Then there was more said on both sides.
By-and-by I ventured to look up, and said I:
"Ah, Friend Edward, if thee really loves me so much as that, I think the least I can do is to—to—be true to myself."
