mother was not the principal object, not
a wish of which her mother was not the
actuating spirit: yet Mrs. Gray could never be
brought to believe that her daughter's love
equalled hers by countless degrees. Isabel
worked for her, played to her, read to her,
walked with her, lived for her. "Duty,
my Isabel, is not love, and I am not blind
enough to mistake the one for the other."
This was all the reward Isabel received.
When she fell in love as she did with
Charles Houghton, Mrs. Gray's happiness
was at an end. Henceforth, her life was
one long, weak, wail of desolation. She
was nothing now; her child had cast her
out of her heart, and had given the dearest
place to another; her own child, her Isabel,
her treasure, her life, her soul. Her hour
had passed; but even death seemed to have
forgotten her. No one loved her now. She
was a down-trodden worm; a poor despised
old woman; an unloved childless widow!
Ah! why could she not die? What sin had
she committed to be so sorely tried?

Isabel had many sorrowful hours, and held
many long debates with her conscience,
asking herself more than once whether she
ought not to give up her engagement with
Charles Houghton if its continuance made her
mother so unhappy; also whether the right
thing was not always the most painful. But
her conscience did not make out a clear case
of filial obligation to this extent, for there
was a duty due to her betrothed; and Isabel
felt she had no right to trifle with any man
after having taught him to love her. She
owed the first duty to her parents; but she
was not free from obligation to her lover;
and, even for her mother's sake, she must not
quite forget this obligation. So her engagement
went on, saddened by her mother's
complaints.

"My love," said her father, "Houghton
has been speaking to me of your marriage,
to-day. Come into my study."

Isabel, pale and red by turns, followed her
father, dreading both his acquiescence or
refusal. In one she heard her mother's sobs, in
the other her lover's despair.

"He says, Bell, that you have been engaged
above a year. We must not be hard on him.
He is naturally desirous to have the affair
settled. What do you say? Will a month
from this seem to you too soon for your
marriage?"

"As you wish, papa," said Isabel, breaking
up a spray of honey-suckle.

"No, no, as you wish, my dear child. Do
you think you would be happy with
Houghton? Have you known him long
enough?"

"Yes, papa: but—"

"But what, love?"

"I hesitate to leave mamma " (her head
sorrowfully bent down).

"That is the trial of life, my child," said
Mr. Gray in a low tone; his face full of that
quiet sorrow of a firm nature which represses
all outward expression, lest it add a double
burden on another. "Yet it is one which, by
the nature of things, must be borne. We
cannot expect to keep you with us always;
and, although it will be a dark day to us when
you are gone, yet if it is for your happiness,
it ought to be so for ours. Tell me, Bell.
What answer do you wish me to give?"

"Will he not wait a little time yet?" and
the girl crept closer to her father.

"I see I must act without you," he said,
smiling and patting her cheek.

"Poor Charles!" she half sighed.

Her father smiled still, but this time rather
sadly, and said, "There, go back to your
mother, child. You are a baby yet, and do
not know your own mind better than a girl
who has to choose between two toys. You
do not know which to leave and which to
take. I must, it seems, choose for you."

"Oh, papa!"

"Yes—you need not look so distressed.
Trust to me and meanwhile—go: your
mother will be wearying for you."

Although this little scene had sunk an old
sorrow deeper into his heart, Mr. Gray was,
when he joined the family, calm, almost
merry. He challenged Charles to a game
of bowls on the lawn, and ran a race with
Isabel round the garden. When he returned
to his wife she told him pettishly, "that it
was a marvel to her how he could be so
unfeeling. See how she suffered from this
terrible marriage! And yet she had no
right to suffer more than he; but," sighed
the lady, "no man ever loved as much as
woman loves!"

"And don't you think I feel, my dear,
because I don't talk? Can you not understand
the duty of silence? Complaints may
at times be mere selfishness."

He spoke very mournfully. She shook her
head. "People who can control themselves
so entirely," she said, "have seldom much to
control. If you felt as I do about our darling
child, you could neither keep silence nor feign
happiness."

Herbert smiled, but made no answer; and
Mrs. Gray fairly cried over Isabel's hard
fate in having such an indifferent father.

It was all settled: Isabel was to be
married in a month's time. Charles mildly
complained of the delay, and thought a
fortnight ample time for any preparations; but
Isabel told him that a month was ridiculously
soon, and she wished her father had
doubled it; "only I long very much to see
Scotland." They were to go to the Highlands
to spend their honeymoon.

Mrs. Gray was entirely inconsolable. The
poor woman was not well, and her nerves
were more than ordinarily irritable. She
gave herself a good deal of extra trouble too—
much more than was necessary—and took cold
by standing in a draught, cutting out a gown
for Isabel; which the maid would have done