When Mary reached her home she was at once met by her stepmother in the passage with tidings of importance. "He is up-stairs in the drawing-room," said Mrs. Masters. Mary whose mind was laden with thoughts of Reginald Morton asked who was the he. "Lawrence Twentyman," said Mrs. Masters. "And now, my dear, do, do think of it before you go to him." There was no anger now in her stepmother\'s face,—but entreaty and almost love. She had not called Mary "my dear" for many weeks past,—not since that journey to Cheltenham. Now she grasped the girl\'s hand as she went on with her prayer. "He is so good and so true! And what better can there be for you? With your advantages, and Lady Ushant, and all that, you would be quite the lady at Chowton. Think of your father and sisters;—what a good you could do them! And think of the respect they all have for him, dining with Lord Rufford the other day and all the other gentlemen. It isn\'t only that he has got plenty to live on, but he knows how to keep it as a man ought. He\'s sure to hold up his head and be as good a squire as any of \'em." This was a very different tale;—a note altogether changed! It must not be said that the difference of the tale and the change of the note affected Mary\'s heart; but her stepmother\'s manner to her did soften her. And then why should she regard herself or her own feelings? Like others she had thought much of her own happiness, had made herself the centre of her own circle, had, in her imagination, built castles in the air and filled them according to her fancy. But her fancies had been all shattered into fragments; not a stone of her castles was standing; she had told herself unconsciously that there was no longer a circle and no need for a centre. That last half-hour which she had passed with Reginald Morton on the road home had made quite sure that which had been sure enough before. He was now altogether out of her reach, thinking only of the new duties which were coming to him. She would never walk with him again; never put herself in the way of indulging some fragment of an illusory hope. She was nothing now,—nothing even to herself. Why should she not give herself and her services to this young man if the young man chose to take her as she was? It would be well that she should do something in the world. Why should she not look after his house, and mend his shirts, and reign over his poultry yard? In this way she would be useful, and respected by all,—unless perhaps by the man she loved. "Mary, say that you will think of it once more," pleaded Mrs. Masters.

"I may go up-stairs,—to my own room?"

"Certainly; do;—go up and smooth your hair. I will tell him that you are coming to him. He will wait. But he is so much in earnest now,—and so sad,—that I know he will not come again."

Then Mary went up-stairs, determined to think of it. She began at once, woman-like, to smooth her hair as her stepmother had recommended, and to remove the dust of the road from her face and dress. But not the less was she thinking of it the while. Could she do it, how much pain would be spared even to herself! How much that was now bitter as gall in her mouth would become,—not sweet,—but tasteless. There are times in one\'s life in which the absence of all savour seems to be sufficient for life in this world. Were she to do this thing she thought that she would have strength to banish that other man from her mind,—and at last from her heart. He would be there, close to her, but of a different kind and leading a different life. Mrs. Masters had told her that Larry would be as good a squire as the best of them; but it should be her care to keep him and herself in their proper position, to teach him the vanity of such aspirations. And the real squire opposite, who would despise her,—for had he not told her that she would be despicable if she married this man,—would not trouble her then. They might meet on the roads, and there would be a cold question or two as to each other\'s welfare, and a vain shaking of hands,—but they would know nothing and care for nothing as to each other\'s thoughts. And there would come some stately dame who hearing how things had been many years ago, would perhaps—. But no;—the stately dame should be received with courtesy, but there should be no patronising. Even in these few minutes up-stairs she thought much of the stately dame and was quite sure that she would endure no patronage from Bragton.

She almost thought that she could do it. There were hideous ideas afflicting her soul dreadfully, but which she strove to banish. Of course she could not love him,—not at first. But all those who wished her to marry him, including himself, knew that;—and still they wished her to marry him. How could that be disgraceful which all her friends desired? Her father, to whom she was, as she knew well, the very apple of his eye, wished her to marry this man;—and yet her father knew that her heart was elsewhere. Had not women done it by hundreds, by thousands, and had afterwards performed their duties well as mothers and wives. In other countries, as she had read, girls took the husbands found for them by their parents as a matter of course. As she left the room, and slowly crept down-stairs, she almost thought she would do it. She almost thought;—but yet, when her hand was on the lock, she could not bring herself to say that it should be so.

He was not dressed as usual. In the first place, there was a round hat on the table, such as men wear in cities. She had never before seen such a hat with him except on a Sunday. And he wore a black cloth coat, and dark brown pantaloons, and a black silk handkerchief. She observed it all, and thought that he had not changed for the better. As she looked into his face, it seemed to her more common,—meaner than before. No doubt he was good-looking,—but his good-looks were almost repulsive to her. He had altogether lost his little swagger;—but he had borne that little swagger well, and in her presence it had never been offensive. Now he seemed as though he had thrown aside all the old habits of his life, and was pining to death from the loss of them. "Mary," he said, "I have come to you,—for the last time. I thought I would give myself one more chance, and your father told me that I might have it." He paused, as though expecting an answer. But she had not yet quite made up her mind. Had she known her mind, she would have answered him frankly. She was quite resolved as to that. If she could once bring herself to give him her hand, she would not coy it for a moment. "I will be your wife, Larry." That was the form on which she had determined, should she find herself able to yield. But she had not brought herself to it as yet. "If you can take me, Mary, you will,—well,—save me from lifelong misery, and make the man who loves you the best-contented and the happiest man in England."

"But, Larry, I do not love you."

"I will make you love me. Good usage will make a wife love her husband. Don\'t you think you can trust me?"

"I do believe that I can trust you for everything good."

"Is that nothing?"

"It is a great deal, Larry, but not enough;—not enough to bring together a man and woman as husband and wife. I would sooner marry a man I loved, though I knew he would ill-use me."

"Would you?"

"T............