gravely talk of Frank's tender love as a terrible misfortune,
as a misfortune to them all, to Mary herself as well as others, how
could Mary do other than love him? "Beatrice is his sister," she
would say within her own mind, "otherwise she would never talk like
this; were she not his sister, she could not but know the value of
such love as this." Ah! yes; Mary did love him; love him with all the
strength of her heart; and the strength of her heart was very great.
And now by degrees, in those lonely donkey-rides at Boxall Hill, in
those solitary walks, she was beginning to own to herself the truth.

And now that she did own it, what should be her course? What should
she do, how should she act if this loved one persevered in his
love? And, ah! what should she do, how should she act if he did not
persevere? Could it be that there should be happiness in store for
her? Was it not too clear that, let the matter go how it would, there
was no happiness in store for her? Much as she might love Frank
Gresham, she could never consent to be his wife unless the squire
would smile on her as his daughter-in-law. The squire had been
all that was kind, all that was affectionate. And then, too, Lady
Arabella! As she thought of the Lady Arabella a sterner form of
thought came across her brow. Why should Lady Arabella rob her of her
heart's joy? What was Lady Arabella that she, Mary Thorne, need quail
before her? Had Lady Arabella stood only in her way, Lady Arabella,
flanked by the de Courcy legion, Mary felt that she could have
demanded Frank's hand as her own before them all without a blush of
shame or a moment's hesitation. Thus, when her heart was all but
ready to collapse within her, would she gain some little strength by
thinking of the Lady Arabella.

"Please, my lady, here be young squoire Gresham," said one of the
untutored servants at Boxall Hill, opening Lady Scatcherd's little
parlour door as her ladyship was amusing herself by pulling down and
turning, and re-folding, and putting up again, a heap of household
linen which was kept in a huge press for the express purpose of
supplying her with occupation.

Lady Scatcherd, holding a vast counterpane in her arms, looked back
over her shoulders and perceived that Frank was in the room. Down
went the counterpane on the ground, and Frank soon found himself in
the very position which that useful article had so lately filled.

"Oh! Master Frank! oh, Master Frank!" said her ladysh