er reply.

Mrs. Farnshaw shook her head, but could not meet the offer squarely.

"The two of you'd be a wishin' you could get rid of me so's you could talk
your own kind of talk," she said with conviction. "'Taint any use, Lizzie;
I ain't your kind. Your pa 'd be madder at me 'n ever, too."

"Well, he's mad all the time, anyhow," Elizabeth said.

"No 'e wasn't till you said that awful thing--that is, 'e was mad often
enough, but not like 'e's been since. You don't know what you done t' your
mother then. Be good, an' go t' 'im, an' settle 'is mind 'fore you're
married. It don't matter if I know Miss Hornby 'r not; but what a
difference it'd make t' me if he only knowed I never put you up t' that
partin' business! Please do it fur me, Lizzie."

This was an unexpected turn. Elizabeth had hoped to avoid the recurrence
of this issue. Knowing that she was keeping her mother in cruel suspense,
Elizabeth hesitated and by every sign showed her disinclination to discuss
the subject. What should she do? What _could_ she do? The tortured eyes of
her mother studied her with an intensity which she could not avoid. To
consent was to fail with her father, to refuse was to make matters much
worse with the mother she had just hurt. Luther had warned her to avoid
collisions with her family which were liable to cause gossip; Aunt Susan
had implored her to keep the folks in a good humour; her own instincts
were against the movement, but her feelings were pleading for the mother
who begged her to try once again to obtain reconciliation before she was
married. Ah! if this time would end it!

"Say you will," the mother begged with pathetic brevity.

"I'd do it in a minute if there were the least opportunity to succeed,
ma," Elizabeth said reluctantly, and not looking toward her. "If I do it
and fail, You'll be wanting me to go right on with it after I'm married,
and that I won't do for anybody." The sentence ended savagely.

Mrs. Farnshaw studied her daughter eagerly. She began to have hopes. Now,
if only she could get the right touch on her appeal.

"If You'll do it, an' be careful-like, Lizzie," she said compellingly, "if
You'll be careful-like this time, I'll never ask you again. I can't live
this way any longer. I won't never ask you again. Please," she insisted.
"Speak real soft an' nice-like. Please."

"But, ma, are you crazy? You told me--you told me that--oh dear, what's
the use to tell you what you said?" the girl cried, her