d not show her feeling by any expression
on her face. "For a man, placed as he is, about to return to such a
climate as that of India, with such work before him as I suppose men
have there,--the burden of a wife, without the means of maintaining
her according to his views of life and hers--"

"We have no views of life. We know that we shall be poor."

"It is the old story of love and a cottage,--only under the most
unfavourable circumstances. A woman's view of it is, of course,
different from that of a man. He has seen more of the world, and
knows better than she does what poverty and a wife and family mean."

"There is no reason why we should be married at once."

"A long engagement for you would be absolutely disastrous."

"Of course, there is disaster," said Mary. "The loss of Walter's
money is disastrous. One has to put up with disaster. But the worst
of all disasters would be to be separated. I can stand anything but
that."

"It seems to me, Mary, that within the last few weeks your character
has become altogether altered."

"Of course it has."

"You used to think so much more of other people than yourself."

"Don't I think of him, Aunt Sarah?"

"As of a thing of your own. Two months ago you did not know him, and
now you are a millstone round his neck."

"I will never be a millstone round anybody's neck," said Mary,
walking out of the room. She felt that her aunt had been very cruel
to her,--had attacked her in her misery without mercy; and yet she
knew that every word that had been uttered had been spoken in pure
affection. She did not believe that her aunt's chief purpose had been
to save Walter from the fruits of an imprudent marriage. Had she
so believed, the words would have had more effect on her. She saw,
or thought that she saw, that her aunt was trying to save herself
against her own will, and at this she was indignant. She was
determined to persevere; and this endeavour to make her feel that
her perseverance would be disastrous to the man she loved was, she
thought, very cruel. She stalked upstairs with unruffled demeanour;
but when there, she threw herself on her bed and sobbed bitterly.
Could it be that it was her duty, for his sake, to tell him that the
whole thing should be at an end? It was impossible for her to do so
now, because she had sworn to him that she would be guided altogether
by him in his present troubles. She must keep her word to him,
whatever happened; but of this she was