,--taking upon himself to give
directions, but giving all the directions just such as she would have
them.

Then he went; and there came upon her a cold, chilling feeling that
she had already been untrue to him. It was a feeling as to which
she could not speak, even to her mother. But why had not her mother
advised her and urged her to tell him everything? Her mother had said
not a word to her about it. Why did her mother treat her as though
she were one to be feared, and beyond the possibility of advice? But
to her mother she said not a word on the subject. From the moment in
which Mr. Western had first begun to pay her attention, the name of
Sir Francis had never been mentioned between the mother and daughter.
And now in all their intercourse Mrs. Holt spoke with an unclouded
serenity of their future life. It was to her as though the Geraldine
episode had been absolutely obliterated from the memory of them
all. Mr. Western to her was everything. She would not accept his
magnificent offer of a home, because she knew that an old woman in a
man's house could only be considered as in his way. She would divide
her income, and give at any rate a third to her daughter. And she did
bestow much advice as to the manner in which everything should be
done so as to tend to his happiness. His tastes should be adopted,
and his ways of life should be studied. His pursuits should be made
her pursuits, and his friends her friends. All this was very well.
Cecilia knew all that without any teaching from her mother. Her
instincts told her as much as that. But what was she to do with this
secret which loaded her bosom, but as to which she could not bring
herself even to ask her mother's advice?

Then she made up her mind that she would write to her lover and
relate the whole story as to Sir Francis Geraldine. And she did
write it; but she was alarmed at finding that the story, when told,
extended itself over various sheets of paper. And the story would
take the shape of a confession,--as though she were telling her lover
of some passage in her life of which she had cause to be ashamed.
She knew that there was no ground for shame. She had done nothing
which she ought not to have done, nothing which she could not have
acknowledged to him without a blush. When the letter was completed,
she found it to be one which she could not send. It was as though she
were telling him something, on reading which he would have to decide
whether their eng