have always
looked upon as an engagement, although it could not be a recognised one
when--when it was first mooted. You must remember, dear, that we are
country people. It seems to us natural that our daughters should marry
country gentlemen--should marry into the circle of our friends and
neighbours. And the prospect of your living near us has always given us
great pleasure. You seemed to me quite happy at home, and I thought you
would have the best chance of happiness in your married life in another
home not unlike ours. I thought you were well fitted to fill that place.
I did not think of you--I don't think it ever crossed my mind to think
of you--as wanting a different life, the sort of life that your cousins
lead, for instance."

"Jim was very good to me, this morning," Cicely said, in a low voice. "I
love him for it. Of course I do love him, in a way, just as I love Dick
or Walter. I was very much ashamed at having left _him_ like that, for
somebody who--who isn't as good as he is. Jim _is_ good, in a way a man
ought to be. But, mother--I can't marry Jim now, after this."

"It is too soon to talk of it, or perhaps even to think of it. And you
have no right to marry anybody unless you love him as a woman should
love her husband, not as you love your brothers. We need not talk of
marriage now at all. But, my dearest, I want you to be happy when you
come home again. If you come back to think that you are badly used,
that----"

"Oh, but, mother," Cicely interrupted her, "that is all over. I have
only been trying to tell you what I did feel. I never thought of the
other side at all. Last night I lay awake and simply longed for home. I
have been very ungrateful. I love Kencote, and the country and
everything I do there, really. I never knew before how much I loved it.
It was a sort of madness that came over me."

"I am glad you feel like that. You have a very beautiful home, and you
are surrounded by those who love you. You _ought_ to be able to make
yourself happy at home, even if you have not got everything that you
might like to have. Can you do so?"

"Yes, mother, I can. I was happy enough before."

"Before you went to London."

"Oh, yes, I suppose it was that. I must be very foolish to let a visit
to London upset me. I don't want to see London again now for a long
time. O mother, I have been very wicked. You won't be different to me,
will you?"

She buried her face in her mother's lap. She was overwrought