I was about to imprint upon her lips the positively last kiss, when she said, with an indescribable archness: "One thing troubles me.

Are you sure that you quite forgive Edith Bartlett for marrying any one else?
The books that have come down to us make out lovers of your time more jealous than fond, and that is what makes me ask.

It would be a great relief to me if I could feel sure that you were not in the least jealous of my great-grandfather for marrying your sweetheart.

May I tell my great-grandmother's picture when I go to my room that you quite forgive her for proving false to you ?" Will the reader believe it, this coquettish quip, whether the speaker herself had any idea of it or not, actually touched and with the touching cured a preposterous ache of something like jealousy which I had been vaguely conscious of ever since Mrs.Leete had told me of Edith Bartlett's marriage.

Even while I had been holding Edith Bartlett's great-granddaughter in my arms, I had not, till this moment, so illogical are some of our feelings, distinctly realized that but for that marriage I could not have done so.