Next there was a
large scarlet geranium in full blossom that cost the extravagant sum of
sixpence; then blinds were made for the windows. A dozen such little
things were done week by week, and as each triumph was achieved, and the
place grew daily brighter and more tasty and refined, a feeling of
satisfaction would come at times into her breast in spite of the
wet-blanketism that was always being laid over everything by Mrs
Thorne.

"It is not that I mind the humble cottage, and the pitifully mean
furniture, Hazel, my dear," sighed Mrs Thorne, "anything would do for
me. I am getting an old woman now."

"No, no, dear," said Hazel. "You are not old; and you are far better
than you were."

"You don't know, Hazel. I alone feel the worm eating away at the bud of
my life; but as I was saying, I don't mind; it is for you I think and
weep."

"Then why think and weep, mamma dear?--there, you see I said mamma this
time."

"Don't say mamma to please me, Hazel I am only your poor helpless,
burdensome mother, now. You say, why think and weep? I will tell you:
because it breaks my heart to see my child wasting herself here, and
performing the most menial duties, when she ought to be taking her place
amongst the richest of the land."

"I should be as happy as could be, dear, and I don't mind the work, if
you would only get quite well."

"Well, Hazel? Never any more. Let me only see you satisfactorily
married, and I shall be ready to die in peace."

"No, no, no, dear!" cried Hazel; "and pray don't say any more about such
things."

"I must my dear; but tell me, has Mr Graves been down again?"

"No, mother."

Mrs Thorne sighed, as she always did at the word "mother."

"Did I--I--tell you that I had had a letter from Mr Geringer?"

"No," said Hazel quickly. "Surely you are not corresponding with him?"

"Oh, no, my dear; I only answered his letters."

"Answered his letters?"

"Yes, my dear; he said he was coming down to see us, if I would give my
consent, and of course I did."

"Oh, mother, dear mother, how could you be so foolish?"

"Foolish, Hazel?"

"Yes, dear. He must not come. I could not see him. Why can he not
leave me here in peace?"

"I--I--will not be spoken to like this by my own child!" cried Mrs
Thorne. "It is cruel; it is wicked of you, Hazel. You not only degrade
me to this terrible life, but you speak to me as if I were so much dirt
under your feet. It is cruel; it is disgraceful;