e ought to call him.

"Now, Miss Crawley, pray listen to me; I will speak to you very
openly. I must speak to you openly, because it is my duty on my son's
behalf--but I will endeavour to speak to you kindly also. Of yourself
I have heard nothing but what is favourable, and there is no reason
as yet why I should not respect and esteem you." Grace told herself
that she would do nothing which ought to forfeit his respect and
esteem, but that she did not care two straws whether his respect and
esteem were bestowed on her or not. She was striving after something
very different from that. "If my son were to marry you, he would
greatly injure himself, and would very greatly injure his child."
Again he paused. He had told her to listen, and she was resolved that
she would listen,--unless he would say something which might make a
word from her necessary at the moment. "I do not know whether there
does at present exist any engagement between you?"

"There is no engagement, sir."

"I am glad of that,--very glad of it. I do not know whether you are
aware that my son is dependent upon me for the greater part of his
income. It is so, and as I am so circumstanced with my son, of course
I feel the closest possible concern in his future prospects." The
archdeacon did not know how to explain clearly why the fact of his
making his son an annual allowance should give him a warmer interest
in his son's affairs than he might have had had the major been
altogether independent of him; but he trusted that Grace would
understand this by her own natural lights. "Now, Miss Crawley, of
course I cannot wish to say a word that will hurt your feelings. But
there are reasons--"

"I know," said she, interrupting him. "Papa is accused of stealing
money. He did not steal it, but people think he did. And then we are
so very poor."

"You do understand me then,--and I feel grateful; I do indeed."

"I don't think our being poor ought to signify a bit," said Grace.
"Papa is a gentleman, and a clergyman, and mamma is a lady."

"But, my dear--"

"I know I ought not to be your son's wife as long as people think
that papa stole the money. If he had stolen it, I ought never to be
Major Grantly's wife,--or anybody else's. I know that very well. And
as for Edith,--I would sooner die than do anything that would be bad
to her."

The archdeacon had now left the rug, and advanced till he was
almost close to the chair on which Grace was sitting. "My dear," he