"That is all very well, mamma,--in books; but I do not believe it in
reality. Being in love is very nice, and in poetry they make it out
to be everything. But I do not think I should make Major Grantly
happy if when I became his wife his own father and mother would not
see him. I know I should be so wretched, myself, that I could not
live."

"But would it be so?"

"Yes;--I think it would. And the archdeacon is very rich, and can
leave all his money away from Major Grantly, if he pleases. Think
what I should feel if I were the cause of Edith losing her fortune!"

"But why do you suppose these terrible things?"

"I have a reason for supposing them. This must be a secret. Miss Anne
Prettyman wrote to me."

"I wish Miss Anne Prettyman's hand had been in the fire."

"No, mamma; no, she was right. Would not I have wished, do you think,
to have learned all the truth about the matter before I answered him?
Besides, it made no difference. I could have made no other answer
while papa is under such a terrible ban. It is no time for us to
think of being in love. We have got to love each other. Isn't it
so, mamma?" The mother did not answer in words, but slipping down
on her knees before her child threw her arms round her girl's body
in a close embrace. "Dear mamma; dearest mamma; this is what I
wanted;--that you should love me."

"Love you, my angel!"

"And trust me;--and that we should understand each other, and stand
close by each other. We can do so much to comfort one another;--but
we cannot comfort other people."

"He must know that best himself, Grace;--but what did he say more to
you?"

"I don't think he said anything more."

"He just left you then?"

"He said one thing more."

"And what was that?"

"He said--but he had no right to say it."

"What was it, dear?"

"That he knew that I loved him, and that therefore-- But, mamma, do
not think of that. I will never be his wife;--never, in opposition to
his family."

"But he did not take your answer?"

"He must take it, mamma. He shall take it. If he can be stubborn, so
can I. If he knows how to think of me more than himself, I can think
of him and Edith more than of myself. That is not quite all, mamma.
Then he wrote to me. There is his letter."

Mrs. Crawley read the letter. "I suppose you answered it?"

"Yes, I answered it. It was very bad, my letter. I should think after
that he will never want to have anything more to say to me. I tried
for two