The silent system in regard to Mary was carried on in the attorney\'s house for a week, during which her sufferings were very great. From the first she made up her mind to oppose her stepmother\'s cruelty by sheer obstinacy. She had been told that she must be made to marry Mr. Twentyman, and the injustice of that threat had at once made her rebel against her stepmother\'s authority. She would never allow her stepmother to make her marry any one. She put herself into a state of general defiance and said as little as was said to her. But her father\'s silence to her nearly broke her heart. On one or two occasions, as opportunity offered itself to her, she said little soft words to him in privacy. Then he would partly relent, would kiss her and bid her be a good girl, and would quickly hurry away from her. She could understand that he suffered as well as herself, and she perhaps got some consolation from the conviction. At last, on the following Saturday she watched her opportunity and brought to him when he was alone in his office a letter which she had written to Larry Twentyman. "Papa," she said, "would you read that?" He took and read the letter, which was as follows:—
 

    My dear Mr. Twentyman,

    Something was said about two months which are now very nearly over. I think I ought to save you from the trouble of coming to me again by telling you in a letter that it cannot be as you would have it. I have thought of it a great deal and have of course been anxious to do as my friends wish. And I am very grateful to you, and know how good and how kind you are. And I would do anything for you,—except this. But it never can be. I should not write like this unless I were quite certain. I hope you won\'t be angry with me and think that I should have spared you the trouble of doubting so long. I know now that I ought not to have doubted at all; but I was so anxious not to seem to be obstinate that I became foolish about it when you asked me. What I say now is quite certain.

    Dear Mr. Twentyman, I shall always think of you with esteem and regard, because I know how good you are; and I hope you will come to like somebody a great deal better than me who will always love you with her whole heart.

    Yours very truly,

    Mary Masters.

    P.S. I shall show this letter to papa.
    

Mr. Masters read it as she stood by him,—and then read it again very slowly rubbing one hand over the other as he did so. He was thinking what he should do;—or rather what he should say. The idea of stopping the letter never occurred to him. If she chose to refuse the man of course she must do so; and perhaps, if she did refuse him, there was no way better than this. "Must it be so, Mary?" he said at last.

"Yes, papa."

"But why?"

"Because I do not love him as I should have to love any man that I wanted to marry. I have tried it, because you wished it, but I cannot do it."

"What will mamma say?"

"I am thinking more, papa, of you," she said putting her arm over his shoulder. "You have always been so good to me, and so kind!" Here his heart misgave him, for he felt that during the last week he had not been kind to her. "But you would not wish me to give myself to a man and then not to care for him."

"No, my dear."

"I couldn\'t do it. I should fall down dead first. I have thought so much about it,—for your sake; and have tried it with myself. I couldn\'t do it."

"Is there anybody else, Mary?" As he asked the question he held her hand beneath his own on the desk, but he did not dare to look into her face. He had been told by his wife that there was somebody else;—that the girl\'s mind was running upon Mr. Surtees, because Mr. Surtees was a gentleman. He was thinking of Mr. Surtees, and certainly not of Reginald Morton.

To her the moment was very solemn and when the question was asked she felt that she could not tell her father a falsehood. She had gradually grown bold enough to assure herself that her heart was occupied with that man who had travelled with her to Cheltenham; and she felt that that feeling alone must keep her apart from any other love. And yet, as she had no hope, as she had assured herself that her love was a burden to be borne and could never become a source of enjoyment, why should her secret be wrested from her? What good would such a violation do? But she could not tell the falsehood, and therefore she held her tongue.

Gradually he looked up into her face, still keeping her hand pressed on the desk under his. It was his left hand that so guarded her, while she stood by his right shoulder. Then he gently wound his right arm round her waist and pressed her to him. "Mary," he said, "if it is so, had you not better tell me?" But she was sure that she had better not mention that name even to him. It was impossible that she should mention it. She would have outraged to herself her own maiden modesty by doing so. "Is it,"—he asked very softly,—"is it—Mr. Surtees?"

"Oh no!" she said quickly, almost escaping from the grasp of his arm in her start.

Then he was absolutely at a loss. Beyond Mr. Surtees or Larry Twentyman he did not know what possible lover Dillsborough could have afforded. And yet the very rapidity of her answer when the curate\'s name had been mentioned had convinced him that there was some other person,—had increased the strength of that conviction which her silence had produced. "Have you nothing that you can tell me, Mary?"

"No, papa." Then............