rtily and stood with open arms to receive him.

Harry plunged at once into his dilemma. "Mother! Mother!" he cried,
taking both her hands in his. "Mother, John is angry with me, but you
will stand by me, I know you will. It is about Lucy, mother. I found her
in great trouble, and I took her out of it. Don't say I did wrong,
mother. Stand by me--you always have done so."

"You took her out of it! Do you mean that you married her?"

"How else could I help her? She is my wife now, and I will take care
that no one troubles her. May I bring her to see you, mother?"

Mrs. Hatton stood looking at Harry. It was difficult for her to take in
and believe what she heard, but in a few moments she said,

"Where is she?"

"At the little hotel in the village."

"You must bring her here at once. She ought never to have gone to the
hotel. Dear me! What will people say?"

"Thank you, mother."

"Take my victoria. James is in the stable and he will drive it. Go for
your wife at once. She must come to your home."

"And you will try and love her for my sake, mother?"

"Nay, nay! If I can't love the lass for her own sake, I'll never love
her for thy sake. But if she is thy wife, she will get all the respect
due thy wife. If she can win more, she'll get more, and that is all
there is to it."

With this concession Harry had to be satisfied. He brought his wife to
the Hall and Mrs. Hatton met her with punctilious courtesy. She gave her
the best guest room and sent her own maid to help her dress. The little
woman was almost frightened by the ceremonious nature of her reception.
But when John came home he called her "Lucy," and tempered by many
little acts of brotherly kindness, that extreme politeness which is
harder to bear than hard words.

And as John and his mother sat alone and unhappy after Harry and his
wife had bid them good night, John attempted to comfort his mother. "You
carried yourself bravely and kindly, mother," he said, "but I see that
you suffer. What do you think of her?"

"She is pretty and docile, but she isn't like a mother of Hatton men.
Look at the pictured women in the corridor upstairs. They were born to
breed and to suckle men of brain and muscles like yourself, John. The
children of little women are apt to be little in some way or other. Lucy
does not look motherly, but Harry is taken up with her. We must make the
best of the match, John, and don't let the trial of their stay here be
too long. Get them a