"You must pay the penalty for loving a parvenu's
son. Come, Julia, no peevishness, no
more romance, no more vacillation. You have
tried Pride and failed, pitiably: now I insist on
your trying Love!  Child, it is the bane of our
sex to carry nothing out. From that weakness I
will preserve you. And, by-the-by, we are not
going to marry Richard Hardie, but Alfred. Now,
Alfred, with all his faults and defects—"

"Mamma! what faults? what defects?"

"Is a gentleman; thanks to Oxford, and Harrow,
and nature. My darling, pray to Heaven
night and day for your dear father's safe return;
for on him, I assure you, and him alone, your
happiness depends: as mine does."

"Mamma!" cried Julia, embracing her, "what
do poor girls do, who have lost their mother?"

"Look abroad and see!" was the grave reply.

Mrs. Dodd then begged her to go to sleep,
like a good child, for her health's sake; all
would be well; and with this was about to
return to her own room: but a white hand and
arm darted out of the bed and caught her.
"What! Hope has come to me by night in the
form of an angel, and shall I let her go back to
her own room ? Never! never! never! never!
never!" And she patted the bed expressively,
and with the prettiest impatience.

"Well, let Hope take off her earrings first,"
suggested Mrs. Dodd.

"No, no, come here directly, earrings and all."

"No, thank you; or I shall have them hurting
you next."

Mrs. Placid removed her earrings, and the
tender pair passed the rest of the night in one
another's arms. The young girl's tears were
dried; and hope revived, and life bloomed again:
only, henceforth, her longing eyes looked out to
sea for her father; homeward bound.

Next day, as they were seated together in the
drawing-room, Julia came from the window with
a rush, and kneeled at Mrs. Dodd's knees, with
bright imploring face upturned.

"He is there; and—I am to speak to him?
Is that it?"

"Dear, dear, dear mamma !"

"Well, then, bring me my things!"

She was ten minutes putting them on: Julia
tried to expedite her; and retarded her. She had
her pace: and could not go beyond it.

By this time Alfred Hardie was thoroughly
miserable. Unable to move his father, shunned
by Julia, sickened by what he had heard, and
indeed seen, of her gaiety and indifference to
their separation, stung by jealousy, and fretted
by impatience, he was drinking nearly all the
bitters of that sweet Passion, Love. But as you
are aware he ascribed Julia's inconstancy, lightness,
and cruelty, all to Mrs. Dodd. He hated
her cordially, and dreaded her into the bargain:
he played the sentinel about her door all the
more because she had asked him not to do it.
"Always do what your enemy particularly objects
to," said he, applying to his own case the
wisdom of a Greek philosopher, one of his
teachers.

So, when the gate suddenly opened, and instead
of Julia, this very Mrs. Dodd walked towards
him, his feelings were anything but enviable.
He wished himself away, heartily, but was too
proud to retreat. He stood bis ground. She
came up to him: a charming smile broke out
over her features, "Ah, Mr. Hardie," said she,
"if you have nothing better to do, will you
give me a minute?" He assented with an ill
grace.

"May I take your arm?"

He offered it with a worse.

She laid her hand lightly on it, and it shuddered
at her touch. He felt like walking with a velvet
tigress.

By some instinct she divined his sentiments,
and found her task more difficult than she had
thought; she took some steps in silence. At
last, as he was no dissembler, he burst out passionately,
"Why are you my enemy?"

"I am not your enemy," said she, softly.

"Not openly, but all the more dangerous.
You keep us apart, you bid her be gay, and forget
me; you are a cruel hard-hearted lady."

"No, I am not, sir," said Mrs. Dodd, simply.

"Oh ! I believe you are good and kind to all
the rest of the world; but you know you have a
heart of iron for me."

"I am my daughter's friend, but not your
enemy; it is you who are too inexperienced to
know how delicate, how difficult, my duties are.
It is only since last night I see my way clear;
and, look, I come at once to you with friendly
intentions. Suppose I were as impetuous as
you are!  I should, perhaps, be calling you ungrateful."

He retorted bitterly, " Give me something to
be grateful for, and you shall see whether that
baseness is in my nature."

"I have a great mind to put you to the proof,"
said she, archly. "Let us walk down this lane;
then you can be as unjust to me as you please,
without attracting public attention."

In the lane she told him quietly she knew the
nature of his father's objections to the alliance he
had so much at heart, and they were objections,
which her husband, on his return, would remove.
On this he changed his tone a little, and implored
her piteously not to deceive him.

"I will not," said she, "upon my honour. If
you are as constant as my daughter is in her
esteem for you—notwithstanding her threadbare
gaiety worn over loyal regret, and to check a
parcel of idle ladies' tongues—you have nothing
to fear from me, and everything to expect. Come,
Alfred—may I take that liberty with you? —let us
understand one another. We only want that to
be friends."

This was hard to resist; and at his age. His
lip trembled, he hesitated, but at last gave her
his hand. She walked two hours with him, and
laid herself out to enlighten, soothe, and comfort