derl}^ "I know not how it is, but this clay I feel as if I were less old—altered though I be in face and mind. I have allowed myself to pity that child; while I speak, I can pity you. Yes! pity—when I think of what you were. Must you go on thus? To what! Jasper Losely," she continued sharply, eagerly, clasping her hands—" hear me—I have an income not large, it is true, but assured; you have nothing but what, as you say, you may lose to-morrow; share my income! Fulfil your solema promises—marry me. I will forget whose daughter that girl is —I will be a mother to her. And for yourself, give me the right to feel for you again as I once did, and I may find a way to raise you yet—higher than you can raise yourself. I have some wit, Jasper, as you know. At the worst you shall have the pas- time—I, the toil. In your illness I will nurse you; in your joys I will intrude no share. Whom else can you marry? to whom else could you confide.? who else could—"
She stopped short as if an adder had stung her, uttering a shriek of rage, of pain; for Jasper Losely, who had hitherto listened to her, stupefied, astounded, here burst into a fit of merriment, in which there was such undisguised contempt, such an enjoyment of the ludicrous, provoked by the idea of the mar- riage pressed upon him, that the insult pierced the woman to her very soul.
Continuing his laugh, despite that cry of wrathful agony it had caused, Jasper rose, holding his sides, and surveying him- self in the glass, with very different feelings at the sight from those that had made his companion's gaze there a few minutes before so mournful.
"My dear good friend," he said, composing himself at last, and wiping his eyes, "excuse me, but really when you said whom else could I marry—ha! ha!—It did seem such a capital joke! Marry you, my fair Crane! No—put that idea out of your head —we know each other too well for conjugal felicity. You love me now; you always did, and always will—that is, while we are not tied to each other. Women who once love me, always love me—can't help themselves. I am sure I don't know why, ex- cept that I am what they call a villain! Ha! the clock striking seven—I dine with a set of fellows I have picked up on the race-ground; they don't know me, nor I them; we shall be bet- ter acquainted after the third bottle. Cheer up, Crane; go and scold Sophy, and make her act if you can; if not, scold Rugge into letting her alone. Scold somebody—nothing like it, to keep the other folks quiet, and one's self busy. Adieu! and pray, no more matrimonial solicitations—they frighten mc I
