here
only, but from Greshamsbury. My presence shall not banish you from
all that you hold dear. If you can honestly say that I am nothing to
you, can be nothing to you, I will then tell my mother that she may
be at ease, and I will go away somewhere and get over it as I may."
The poor fellow got so far, looking apparently at the donkey's ears,
with hardly a gasp of hope in his voice, and he so far carried Mary
with him that she also had hardly a gasp of hope in her heart. There
he paused for a moment, and then looking up into her face, he spoke
but one word more. "But," said he--and there he stopped. It was
clearly told in that "but." Thus would he do if Mary would declare
that she did not care for him. If, however, she could not bring
herself so to declare, then was he ready to throw his father and
mother to the winds; then would he stand his ground; then would he
look all other difficulties in the face, sure that they might finally
be overcome. Poor Mary! the whole onus of settling the matter was
thus thrown upon her. She had only to say that he was indifferent to
her;--that was all.

If "all the blood of the Howards" had depended upon it, she could
not have brought herself to utter such a falsehood. Indifferent to
her, as he walked there by her donkey's side, talking thus earnestly
of his love for her! Was he not to her like some god come from the
heavens to make her blessed? Did not the sun shine upon him with a
halo, so that he was bright as an angel? Indifferent to her! Could
the open unadulterated truth have been practicable for her, she
would have declared her indifference in terms that would truly have
astonished him. As it was, she found it easier to say nothing. She
bit her lips to keep herself from sobbing. She struggled hard, but
in vain, to prevent her hands and feet from trembling. She seemed to
swing upon her donkey as though like to fall, and would have given
much to be upon her own feet upon the sward.

"_Si la jeunesse savait . . ._" There is so much in that wicked old
French proverb! Had Frank known more about a woman's mind--had he,
that is, been forty-two instead of twenty-two--he would at once have
been sure of his game, and have felt that Mary's silence told him
all he wished to know. But then, had he been forty-two instead of
twenty-two, he would not have been so ready to risk the acres of
Greshamsbury for the smiles of Mary Thorne.

"If you can't say one word to comfort me, I will go," said