r, and she saw little of
them until dinner-time. The evenings were social, after a fashion.
Sometimes Mary played or sung--sometimes George read aloud. Mr. Wynter
liked to be amused, but he did not care to talk. Thus, even the hours
they spent together led to no acquaintance between father and
daughter--each was altogether in the dark as to the thoughts, feelings,
and projects of the other.

One November morning Mary was sitting alone as usual. She had intended
to go out, but it was grey and cheerless out of doors, and the
attraction of a bright fire, and a new book, proved too strong for her.
The book was one of her favourite Indian stories, and she lost herself
in the delightful depths of the "forest primeval" with an entire and
blissful forgetfulness of England and common sense. But she roused
herself, with a start of no little surprise, when her father suddenly
walked into the room.

"Papa!" she cried, jumping up and letting her book fall, with a sudden
conviction that something important indeed, must have brought so unusual
a visitor.

"Sit down, my dear," he answered kindly; "I have something to say to
you. It did not seem necessary to say anything about it before, but now
you are nearly twenty-one, and that is the time I have always fixed
upon."

"Fixed upon for what, papa?" she said, utterly at a loss.

"For your marriage, my dear. It is a good age, quite young enough, and
yet old enough for a girl to have some idea of her duties. I wish you to
be married in February. A month after your birthday."

Mary looked at him in complete bewilderment. Her very marriage-day
fixed, and where was the bridegroom? She almost laughed, as she thought
that she could not even guess at any person who as likely to propose for
her--except one.

"But who is it?" she managed to ask, at last. "Nobody wants to marry
me."

"Who is it?" Mr. Wynter repeated in surprise. "George, of course."

"George!" she stopped a minute to recover breath.

Mr. Wynter remained silent. He had said all that was needful. She was
going to say, "Papa, you must be joking," but she looked at his face and
could not. He was too much in earnest--she perceived that with him the
thing was settled--and therefore done. She took courage from the
despair of the moment; "Papa," she said deliberately, "I will _never_
marry my cousin George."

For one moment, his face seemed to change. Then he got up, as calm and
assured as before.

"You are surprised, I se