id he make the same offer to Martha or Cuthbert?' asked Mark; 'and
were they indignant too?'

'They weren't asked. I don't think Uncle Solomon cares about them
much; _you're_ his favourite, Mark.'

'Yes, _I'm_ his favourite,' said Mark; 'but I'm not proud, Trixie.
Besides, I rather think all that is over now.'

Here the door of the next room opened, and Mrs. Ashburn's voice was
heard saying, 'Trixie, tell your brother Mark that, if he is in a
condition to be spoken to, his father and I have something to say to
him at once.'

'Encouraging that,' said Mark. 'Well, Trixie, here goes. You'd better
go to bed. I'm afraid we are going to have a scene in there.'

He went in with a rather overdone cheerfulness. 'Well, mother,' he
began, attempting to kiss her, 'I didn't dine at home to-night
because----'

'I know why you didn't dine at home,' she said. 'I wish for no kisses
from you, Mark. We have seen your uncle.'

'So have I,' said Mark; 'I lunched with him.'

'It is useless to trifle now,' she said; 'we know all.'

'I assure you I _did_ lunch with him; we had chops,' said Mark, who
sometimes found the bland and childlike manner very useful in these
emergencies. It did not serve him then, however.

'How could you deceive your uncle in such a manner?' she resumed.

'I didn't. I _un_deceived him.'

'You have disappointed all his plans for you; thrown up the Bar, your
position at St. Peter's, all your prospects in life--and for what?'

'For fun, of course, mother. I don't know what I'm fit for or what I
want; it's pure idiotic recklessness, isn't it?'

'It is; but don't talk to me in that ribald tone, Mark; I have enough
to bear as it is. Once for all I ask you, Is it true what my brother
tells me, that you have returned to the mire like the sow in the
Scriptures; that you are going to let your name be connected
with--with a novel, after all you have promised?'

'Quite true,' said Mark; 'I hope to be connected with many novels.'

'Mark,' said his mother, 'you know what I think about that. I implore
you to pause while there's time still, before doing what you can never
recall. It's not only from worldly motives that I ask it. Surely you
can sacrifice a contemptible vanity to your duty towards your mother.
I may be wrong in my prejudices, but still I have a right to expect
you to regard them. I ask you once more to withdraw from this. Are you
going to refuse me?'

Mrs. Ashburn's harsh tones carried a very genui