happy as his sister. There had been a terrible scene between him
and Lady Frances after his return from Trafford. He came back with
Marion's letter in his pocket,--with every word contained in it clear
in his memory; but still, still doubting as to the necessity of
obeying Marion's orders. She had declared, with whatever force of
words she had known how to use, that the marriage which he proposed
to himself was impossible. She had told him so more than once before,
and the telling had availed nothing. Her first assertion that she
could not become his wife had hardly served to moderate in the least
the joy which he had felt from the assurances of her affections. It
had meant nothing to him. When she had spoken to him simply of their
differences of rank he had thrown the arguments under his feet, and
had trampled upon them with his masterful imperious determination.
His whole life and energy were devoted to the crushing of arguments
used towards him by those who were daily telling him that he was
severed from other men by the peculiarities of his rank. He certainly
would not be severed from this one woman whom he loved by any such
peculiarity. Fortifying his heart by these reflections, he had
declared to himself that the timid doubtings of the girl should go
for nothing. As she loved him he would of course be strong enough
to conquer all such doubtings. He would take her up in his arms and
carry her away, and simply tell her that she had got to do it. He had
a conviction that a girl when once she had confessed that she loved
a man, belonged to the man, and was bound to obey him. To watch over
her, to worship her, to hover round her, so that no wind should be
allowed to blow too strongly on her, to teach her that she was the
one treasure in the world that could be of real value to him,--but
at the same time to make a property of her, so that she should be
altogether his own,--that had been his idea of the bond which should
unite him and Marion Fay together. As she took a joy in his love it
could not be but that she would come to his call at last.

She too had perceived something of this,--so much, that it had become
necessary to her to tell him the whole truth. Those minor reasons,
though even they should have been strong enough, were not, she found,
powerful with him. She tried it, and acknowledged to herself that she
failed. The man was too wilful for her guidance,--too strong for the
arguments by which she had hoped to