clared that there was nothing in it. "As
far as I know," the Quaker had said, "she is as fit to become a man's
wife as any other girl." He surely must have known had there been any
real cause. Girls are so apt to take fancies into their heads, and
then will sometimes become so obstinate in their fancies! In this way
Hampstead discussed the matter with himself, and had been discussing
it ever since he had walked up and down Broad Street with the Quaker.
But if she pleaded her health, he had what her own father had said
to use as an argument with which to convince her. If she spoke again
of his rank, he thought that on that matter his love might be strong
enough as an argument against her,--or perhaps her own.

He found no trouble in making his way into her presence. She had
heard of his visit to King's Court, and knew that he would come. She
had three things which she had to tell him, and she would tell them
all very plainly if all should be necessary. The first was that love
must have nothing to do in this matter,--but only duty. The second,
which she feared to be somewhat weak,--which she almost thought would
not of itself have been strong enough,--was that objection as to her
condition in life which she had urged to him before. She declared to
herself that it would be strong enough both for him, and for her, if
they would only guide themselves by prudence. But the third,--that
should be a rock to her if it were necessary; a cruel rock on which
she must be shipwrecked, but against which his bark should surely not
be dashed to atoms. If he would not leave her in peace without it she
would tell him that she was fit to be no man's wife.

If it came to that, then she must confess her own love. She
acknowledged to herself that it must be so. There could not be
between them the tenderness necessary for the telling of such a
tale without love, without acknowledged love. It would be better
that it should not be so. If he would go and leave her to dream of
him,--there might be a satisfaction even in that to sustain her
during what was left to her of life. She would struggle that it
should be so. But if his love were too strong, then must he know it
all. She had learned from her father something of what had passed at
that interview in the City, and was therefore ready to receive her
lover when he came. "Marion," he said, "you expected me to come to
you again?"

"Certainly I did."

"Of course I have come. I have had to go to