that he might, if yet possible, break through the trapping. All this
made life rather unpleasant for her.

One day, walking solitary in the lanes, she met that sturdy farmer to
whose daughter she had in former days been so serviceable. "God bless
'ee, Miss Mary," said he--he always did bid God bless her when he saw
her. "And, Miss Mary, to say my mind out freely, thee be quite gude
enough for un, quite gude enough; so thee be'st tho'f he were ten
squoires." There may, perhaps, have been something pleasant in the
heartiness of this; but it was not pleasant to have this heart affair
of hers thus publicly scanned and talked over: to have it known to
every one that she had set her heart on marrying Frank Gresham, and
that all the Greshams had set their hearts on preventing it. And yet
she could in nowise help it. No girl could have been more staid and
demure, less demonstrative and boastful about her love. She had never
yet spoken freely, out of her full heart, to one human being. "Oh,
Frank!" All her spoken sin had been contained in that.

But Lady Arabella had been very active. It suited her better that it
should be known, far and wide, that a nameless pauper--Lady Arabella
only surmised that her foe was nameless; but she did not scruple to
declare it--was intriguing to catch the heir of Greshamsbury. None of
the Greshams must meet Mary Thorne; that was the edict sent about the
country; and the edict was well understood. Those, therefore, were
bad days for Miss Thorne.

She had never yet spoken on the matter freely, out of her full heart
to one human being. Not to one? Not to him? Not to her uncle? No, not
even to him, fully and freely. She had told him that that had passed
between Frank and her which amounted, at any rate on his part, to a
proposal.

"Well, dearest, and what was your answer?" said her uncle, drawing
her close to him, and speaking in his kindest voice.

"I hardly made any answer, uncle."

"You did not reject him, Mary?"

"No, uncle," and then she paused;--he had never known her tremble as
she now trembled. "But if you say that I ought, I will," she added,
drawing every word from herself with difficulty.

"I say you ought, Mary! Nay; but this question you must answer
yourself."

"Must I?" said she, plaintively. And then she sat for the next
half hour with her head against his shoulder; but nothing more was
said about it. They both acquiesced in the sentence that had been
pronounced against the