that Paul loved the daughter
of the man who had treated him so badly. She would have loved to have
had him all to herself, so that they might have been all in all to each
other, but she had seen into his heart, and knew that he loved this
girl. And he must have her, and whatever stood in his way must be
removed. For that she lived and thought and planned.

The day before his home-coming she had seen that which grieved her
sorely, and angered her beyond words. A local newspaper had it that
Ned Wilson and Mary Bolitho were engaged, and she wondered how she
could break the news to her boy. That the engagement should be broken
she had fully made up her mind--no matter what happened Paul must have
the woman of his choice!

After dinner they sat alone in the little room on which Paul had
bestowed so much attention, and she wondered whether he had beard the
news which bad brought her so much pain.

"It was a great speech you made, Paul!" she said, when they had been
sitting quietly for some time.

"Nonsense, mother!" was his reply. "Nonsense; it was a failure!"

"No, no. I read every word, Paul, and it was not a failure. You're
going to be a great man, my son!"

He laughed bitterly. He remembered the letter which Judge Bolitho had
written to him. "I feel as though I don't care about anything!" he
went on at length. "What's the good of success? What are we in the
House of Commons, after all, but a lot of voting machines? What does
it matter which party is in power?"

"Nay, nay, Paul. That's not like you to talk so!"

"I'm tired of it--tired of everything!" he went on.

"You're thinking about that lass!" said his mother, and although he
made no reply, she knew she was right.

"Have you ever seen her?" she asked at length.

He nodded.

"And done nothing, I expect?"

"I wrote to her father," was his reply. "I asked him in a
straightforward, honourable manner to let me try and win her for my
wife."

The woman's eyes shone bright with excitement. "And, and----?" she
said.

"Here's his letter!" he replied. "I carry it around with me to tell
myself what a fool I've been. You can read it if you like! You can
see it's written in the third person, and evidently typed by his
secretary. That of itself is an insult, when one bears in mind the
kind of letter I wrote to him!"

The woman read it carefully, word by word. She could not help seeing
the insult contained in every line, could not help real