's ferocity; pleasant enough for the tiger, but simply
destruction to the lamb. However, Mrs Rothwell pressed Mark to
propose, so he yielded after a faint resistance, and now watched for his
opportunity.

It was a sweet July evening: the sun was near his setting, and was
casting long shadows across the lawn at the back of "The Shrubbery."
Mrs Franklin was sitting on a garden seat reading, her attention
divided between her book and the glowing tints of a bed of flowers all
ablaze with variegated beauty. A little shaded walk turned off near
this seat into the kitchen garden, which was separated from the flower
garden in this quarter by a deep ravine, at the bottom of which ran a
trout stream. The ravine was crossed by a rustic bridge. Mr John
Randolph had been calling at the house with some music, and, being now
looked upon more in the light of a friend than an instructor, had the
privilege of making a short cut to the turnpike road over this foot
bridge and through the kitchen garden. Mark Rothwell also usually
availed himself of this more direct approach to the house. On the
present occasion the two young men met in the kitchen garden, and passed
each other by without recognition, Mark hurrying forward to make his
proposal, his already intense excitement inflamed by strong drink, which
he had taken with less caution than on his ordinary visits to "The
Shrubbery"; John Randolph lingering on his way in a somewhat
discontented mood, which was not improved by the sight of Mark.
Suddenly the stillness was broken by a loud scream and cry for help: it
was Mary Franklin's voice. Both the young men rushed towards the
bridge, and beheld a sight which filled them with dismay. Mary had
strolled from her mother's side to the little foot bridge, and, filled
with sorrowful thoughts, leant against the rustic parapet. The
woodwork, which was inwardly decayed, gave way beneath her weight; she
tried to recover herself but in vain, and fell over the side of the
bridge, still, however, managing to keep herself from plunging into the
stream by clinging to a creaking fragment of the broken rails. Her
dress also helped to stay her up, having become entangled with the
woodwork. Mark reached the bridge first, but was so confused by drink
and excitement that he scarcely knew what he was doing, when he felt
himself flung aside by the strong arm of John Randolph, who sprang
forward, and stooping down endeavoured to raise the poor terrifi