knew what little she did now know of
her own story, she would have said it was so. And would she indulge
her own love by inveigling him she loved into a base marriage? But
then reason spoke again. What, after all, was this blood of which she
had taught herself to think so much? Would she have been more honest,
more fit to grace an honest man's hearthstone, had she been the
legitimate descendant of a score of legitimate duchesses? Was it not
her first duty to think of him--of what would make him happy? Then of
her uncle--what he would approve? Then of herself--what would best
become her modesty; her sense of honour? Could it be well that she
should sacrifice the happiness of two persons to a theoretic love of
pure blood?

So she had argued within herself; not now, sitting on the donkey,
with Frank's hand before her on the tame brute's neck; but on other
former occasions as she had ridden along demurely among those trees.
So she had argued; but she had never brought her arguments to a
decision. All manner of thoughts crowded on her to prevent her doing
so. She would think of the squire, and resolve to reject Frank; and
would then remember Lady Arabella, and resolve to accept him. Her
resolutions, however, were most irresolute; and so, when Frank
appeared in person before her, carrying his heart in his hand, she
did not know what answer to make to him. Thus it was with her as with
so many other maidens similarly circumstanced; at last she left it
all to chance.

"You ought, at any rate, to believe me," said Frank, "when you find
that a year has not altered me."

"A year should have taught you to be wiser," said she. "You should
have learnt by this time, Mr Gresham, that your lot and mine are not
cast in the same mould; that our stations in life are different.
Would your father or mother approve of your even coming here to see
me?"

Mary, as she spoke these sensible words, felt that they were "flat,
stale, and unprofitable." She felt, also, that they were not true in
sense; that they did not come from her heart; that they were not such
as Frank deserved at her hands, and she was ashamed of herself.

"My father I hope will approve of it," said he. "That my mother
should disapprove of it is a misfortune which I cannot help; but
on this point I will take no answer from my father or mother; the
question is one too personal to myself. Mary, if you say that you
will not, or cannot return my love, I will go away;--not from