tender fear, which was partly the habit of years, and very
much the result of a generous estimate of her many excellences, and of
his own indebtedness to them. And from the beginning of time, men have
desired to worship a woman; some men take naturally to the worship of
the Blessed Virgin; others turn their religion of woman to motherhood,
and find that among the millions of earth-mothers, there is no mother
like the mother that bore them. Harry was one of these disciples.

He had been insensible so long to the charms of maidenhood, because he
gave all the tenderness of his nature to his mother; and even his love
for Rose was not so much on the ground that she was his sister as that
she was his mother's daughter. And undoubtedly, this mother love had
been hitherto the salt of his life. It had preserved him from all
excesses that would grieve her, it had sanctified the idea of home in
his heart; and if it had in a measure narrowed his nature, it had kept
him from those gross vices men do not go from a mother's side to
practice.

He came into the room with a conscious alertness, blaming himself for
not taking more interest in the coming entertainment. Yet he had felt
it hard to do so; in the first place, Yanna would not be present, her
father having positive convictions about the folly--perhaps the
sin--of dancing. In the second place, he had really written to Yanna;
the letter in the possession of Mrs. Filmer being a mild draft of the
one actually sent; so that the air of anxiety was a very natural one.
He perceived at once that his mother was much annoyed, and his face
was instantly sympathetic.

"I knew this thing was going to be too much for you, dear mother," he
said, with an air of reproach. "I am so sorry you undertook it. It
will be a bore altogether."

"Harry, it is not the ball--it is you! Oh, Harry! Harry! Look at this
letter. I found it in your room. Naturally, I read it; and, of course,
having done so, I think it honorable to talk with you about it."

Harry was fingering the letter his mother handed him, as she spoke,
and when she ceased, he folded the paper and put it in his pocket.
"Well, mother," he said, "you have discovered what I intended to tell
you as soon as this miserable ball was over. I love Yanna. I intend
to marry her--if she will marry me."

"No fear of that. The girl has been doing her best to secure you all
summer long."

"You are mistaken, mother."

"Oh, Harry, such a marriage is i