in for an hour, Mary drew back
into a corner with her knitting, and did not speak.

'Mary,' said her mother, when she came back from lighting her aunt down
stairs, 'come to me, my child.'

Mary came, and her mother took both her hands. They were chilly; and
there was a little pulse on Mary's temple that visibly throbbed, and
almost seemed to leap, with fearful rapidity.

'Dear child, I had no power to talk before, or I would not have kept
you in suspense. I am afraid it will not do.'

'I was sure of it,' said Mary, almost in a whisper. 'Dear mamma, you
should not have vexed and tired yourself.'

'I comforted myself,' said Mrs. Ponsonby; 'I said things to him that I
had longed to say, and how beautifully he took them! But I could not
feel that he knew what he was about much better than he did the first
time.'

'It would not be right,' said Mary, in her old tone.

'I think your father might have been persuaded. I would have written,
and done my utmost--'

'Oh, mamma, anything rather than you should have that worry!'

'And I think things will be different--he is softened, and will be more
so. But it is foolish to talk in this way, and it may be well that the
trial should not be made; though that was not the reason I answered
Louis as I did.'

'I suppose it will be Miss Conway,' said Mary, trying to smile.

'At least, it ought to be no one else till he has seen enough of her to
form a judgment without the charm of prohibition; and this he may do
without committing himself, as they are so nearly connected. I must
ask his father to give him distinct permission, and then I shall have
done with these things.'

Mary would not break the silence, nor recall her to earthly interests;
but she returned to the subject, saying, wistfully, 'Can you tell me
that you are content, dear child?'

'Quite content, thank you, mamma--I am certain it is right,' said Mary.
'It would be taking a wrong advantage of his compassion. I fall too
far short of what would be wanted to make him happy.'

She spoke firmly, but her eyes were full of tears. Her mother felt as
if no one could fail of happiness with Mary, but, controlling the
impulse, said, 'It is best, dearest; for you could not bear to feel
yourself unable to make him happy, or to fancy he might have more peace
without you. My dear, your prospect is not all I could have wished or
planned, but this would be too cruel.'

'It is my duty to go to papa,' said Mary. 'Wha