Mrs. Mountjoy, "and is the owner of
Tretton."

"That is nothing to do with it," said Florence.

"It has much to do with it," said her mother, "though you would never
listen to me. I had set my heart upon it, but you have determined to
thwart me. And yet there was a time when you preferred him to every one
else."

"Never!" said Florence, with energy.

"Yes, you did,--before Mr. Annesley here came in the way."

"It was before I came, at any rate," said Harry.

"I was young, and I did not wish to be disobedient. But I never loved
him, and I never told him so. Now it is out of the question."

"He will never come back again," said Mrs. Mountjoy, mournfully.

"I should be very glad to see him back when I and Florence are man and
wife. I don't care how soon we should see him."

"No; he will never come back," said Florence,--"not as he came to-day.
That trouble is at last over, mamma."

"And my trouble is going to begin."

"Why should there be any trouble? Harry will not give you trouble;--will
you, Harry?"

"Never, I trust," said Harry.

"He cannot understand," said Mrs. Mountjoy; "he knows nothing of the
desire and ambition of my life. I had promised him my child, and my word
to him is now broken."

"He will have known, mamma, that you could not promise for me. Now go,
Harry, because we are flurried. May I not ask him to come here to-night
and to drink tea with us?" This she said, addressing her mother in a
tone of sweetest entreaty. To this Mrs. Mountjoy unwillingly yielded,
and then Harry also took his departure.

Florence was aware that she had gained much by the interview of the
morning. Even to her it began to appear unnecessary that she could keep
Harry waiting three years. She had spoken of postponing the time of her
servitude and of preserving for herself the masterdom of her own
condition. But in that respect the truth of her own desires was well
understood by them all. She was anxious enough to submit to her new
master, and she felt that the time was coming. Her mother had yielded so
much, and Mountjoy had yielded. Harry was saying to himself at this very
moment that Mountjoy had thrown up the sponge. She, too, was declaring
the same thing for her own comfort in less sporting phraseology, and,
what was much more to her, her mother had nearly thrown up the sponge
also. In the worse days of her troubles any suitor had made himself
welcome to her mother who would rescue her child from the fangs of th