sh to see you, I know."

"Please to remember, dear--it astonishes me that you forget it--that I
have a responsibility to Mr. Mallard. I have no legal charge of you.
With every reason, Mr. Mallard may reproach me if I countenance what it
is impossible for him to approve."

Cecily searched the speaker's face.

"Do you mean," she asked gravely, "that Mr. Mallard will
disapprove--what I have done?"

"I can say nothing on that point. But I am very sure that he would not
approve of this meeting, if he could know what was happening. I must
communicate with him at once. Until he comes, or writes, it is your
duty, my dear, to decline this interview. Believe me, it is your duty."

Mrs. Lessingham spoke more earnestly than she ever had done to her
niece. Indeed, earnest speech was not frequent upon her lips when she
talked with Cecily. In spite of the girl's nature, there had never
existed between them warmer relations than those of fondness and
interest on one side, and gentleness with respect on the other. Cecily
was well aware of this something lacking in their common life; she had
wished, not seldom these last two years, to supply the want, but found
herself unable, and grew conscious that her aunt gave all it was in her
power to bestow. For this very reason, she found it impossible to utter
herself in the present juncture as she could have done to a mother--as
she could have done to Miriam; impossible, likewise, to insist on her
heart's urgent desire, though she knew not how she should forbear it.
To refuse compliance would have been something more than failure in
dutifulness; she would have felt it as harshness, and perhaps
injustice, to one with whom she involuntarily stood on terms of
ceremony.

"May I write a reply to this letter?" she asked, after a silence.

"I had rather you allowed me to speak for you to Mr. Elgar. To write
and to see him are the same thing. Surely you can forget yourself for a
moment, and regard this from my point of view."

"I don't know how far you may be led by your sense of responsibility.
Remember that you have insisted to me on your prejudice against Mr.
Elgar."

"Vainly enough," returned the other, with a smile. "If you prefer it, I
will myself write a line to be given to Mr. Elgar when he calls. Of
course, you shall see what I write."

Cecily turned away, and stood in struggle with herself. She had not
foreseen a conflict of this kind. Surprise, and probably vexation, she
was pre