"Sweetheart, you are unfair. I am but working for that proud future which you shall share with me."
"I should like more of present joy and less of future hope."
"Is not the future," said Milton, "worth a sacrifice?"
"I am like a miser with his gold. I can spare nothing of that which is mine."
Milton seized her hand, raised it to his heart, and swore that his love was completely and fully hers.
"Do you wish me," he said, "to abandon my profession? Say but the word, and I will."
"Would you do that for me?" almost whispered Marie.
"As surely as I live," he replied.
"And do you think I would accept such a sacrifice?"
"Then my dear must not agonize me with these constant suspicions. They are unworthy of you."
"Then you do not love Ouida?"
"I love the glorious art of which she is the mistress. I appreciate her because I grasp much from her cunning and deft craftsmanship. But you (clasping her to his breast) are the one woman whom Nature has sent for mating. Enough of this now. You do, you must, trust me."
She let her head sink gently on his breast. The struggle was over, and the tear-dimmed eyes that looked into his had no doubt in them, for they were lighted up by a faith eternal.
Arm in arm they went into Milton's work-room, where for some time he delighted her with an exhibition of his work, the progress he was making, and he poured into her willing and sympathetic ear, the story of his future
