"I speak quite truly. I cannot judge the
woman's heart. There may be motives, excuses
—what do I know? But it is vain to frighten
me with a bugbear, represented by such a
woman as my Aunt Mary, and then bid me
turn and admire Mrs. Hatchett."

"Your aunt, I have been led to understand, is
an exceptional person."

"She is so; and so, I trust, is Mrs. Hatchett.
But I do not believe that the profession people
follow makes them either good or bad."

"Dear Miss Earnshaw, you cannot know all
the considerations that weigh against your
scheme. A woman should shun publicity. At
least, that is my idea."

"A woman should shun dishonesty, evil
speaking, lying, and slandering. All these
things are very rife in the privacy of my
school life. But we will cease this
discussion, if, you please. I appreciate your good
motive, Mr. Charlewood; and, if you will let
me say so, I am very grateful to you for your
friendship towards mamma. As to me, I
suppose I have put myself out of the pale of your
good graces. But I am not cold-hearted or
ungrateful. Perhaps some day you may think
better of me."

The moment's softening of the candid brow,
the unlocking of the haughty lips from their
scornful curve, the half-timid, half-playful look
of appeal in her face as she uttered these words,
had an irresistible charm for Clement. He leant
his folded arms upon the table, and bending
across it, until his hair nearly brushed the hand
she held up to screen her face, whispered
tremulously, " Mabel, I love you."

She turned upon him for a moment in
the full blaze of the lamp a countenance so
white, and lighted by such astonished eyes,
that he was startled. Then the tide of crimson
rushed over neck, cheek, and brow, and she
dropped her head upon her outspread hands,
without a word.

"Mabel, Mabel," he said, " won't you speak
to me? Have I offended? have I hurt you?"

Here Mrs. Saxelby, turning in her chair,
opened her eyes for a moment, and said with
great suavity, "I hope you are entertaining
Mr. Charlewood, Mabel. Don't mind my
closing my eyes; I can hear every word you
say." And the next moment she gave utterance
to the gentlest and most lady-like of
snores.

"Mabel," said Clement, in a voice that trembled
from the strong effort he was making to
command himself, "I beseech you to speak to
me, or I shall think I have pained you beyond
forgiveness."

Mabel slowly raised her face, which was now
quite pale again, and looked at him; but she said
no word, and her mouth seemed fixed into a
frozen silence.

Clement rose from his chair, and coming
round to where she sat, knelt on the ground
beside her, close to the child who lay nestling at
her feet.

"Mabel," he said, " I did not intend to speak
to you so, and now. But the words I have
said, however poorly uttered, are the truth. I
love you with all my heart, so help me Heaven!"

She clasped her hands so tightly together, as
to press a slight plain ring she wore, deep into
the soft flesh.

"I am very sorry," she said at last, with an
effort.

"Very sorry! Oh, Mabel!"

He rose and covered his eyes with his hand
for a moment.

"Very sorry! And I would give the world
to make you happy."

"Pray, pray do not speak to me any more
now, I cannot bear it."

"No, no. I will not distress you. I will be
patient. I will wait. I have taken you by
surprise, and have been brusque and awkward.
Do not give me your answer now. You will
let me write to you, see you again. Only this
one word more. Believe that I shall always,
always be your friend—your dearest and closest
friend on earth, if you will let me—but, come
what may, a faithful and devoted friend."

She had hidden her face in her hands once
more, but he could see by the heaving of her
breast that she was weeping.

"I do not ask you to speak to me, Mabel.
But if you believe that I will be true to that
promise, and if you trust me, give me your hand.
I shall understand and shall be grateful. You
won't refuse me so much, for old friendship's
sake."

For the space of a minute she sat motionless,
save for the sobs which shook her frame.
Then, without raising her head or looking up,
she held out to him her little hand, all marked
and dented by the pressure of her ring.

He took it very gently between both of his,
and, bending over her, whispered, " God bless
you, Mabel." And then, there was silence
between them.

When Mrs. Saxelby awoke at the jingling
entrance of the tea-tray, she found that Clement
had partially withdrawn the heavy curtains from
the window, and was gazing out into the blackness
of the night.

"Dear me," said Mrs. Saxelby, apologetically,
"I beg a thousand pardons, Mr. Charlewood.
I'm afraid I've been dozing." The good lady
had been wrapped in a profound slumber.
"I'm so sorry, for I fear that dear Mabel has
not been the liveliest companion in the world.
Poor darling! She is tired and worn. I shall be
so thankful when Easter comes, that she may
get away from this place."

Then they had tea, and Dooley had to be
aroused and wrapped up for his journey, and
then it was time to go. They drove first to Mrs.
Hatchett's, and set down Mabel.

Very little was said on the journey back to
Hammerham. Mrs. Saxelby merely told Clement
that she had given Mabel leave to write to her
aunt, but nothing was decided on. Clement
leaned back against the cushions of the railway
carriage and mused. The day had been a
disappointment. That was his predominant