red him calmly
and quietly, telling him I was serious and what you meant to me. He
wouldn't listen at first; then when he did, he wouldn't agree. Pleaded
with me--he was lonesome, I was his only son, he needed me, he couldn't
share me with anyone else, and so on. There is no use going into all the
details. We didn't get any nearer an agreement, we did get nearer and
nearer to bad temper on my part and shouts and hysterics on his. So
I left him, Mary. That was last night. I knew Dad was inclined to be
stubborn, and I knew he had strong prejudices, but I never imagined
he could behave like this to me. And I am sure he would not if he were
himself. So I shall say no more to him on the subject for a day or two.
Then, when he is better, as I am hoping he may be soon, he and I will
have another talk. But understand, Mary dear, my mind was made up
before I spoke to him at all. What he says or what he does will make no
difference, so far as you and I are concerned. I know you are a believer
in duty; well, so am I. I would stick by Dad through thick and thin. If
I knew he was right in asking me to do or not to do a thing, even if I
knew he had been wrong in asking other things, I would stick by him and
try to do as he asked. But not this. I love Dad, God knows I do, but I
love you, Mary, and as I have vowed to myself every day since I last saw
you, I am going to marry you if you will only have me. As for Dad--well,
we'll hope within a day or two I may have better news to write.

Mary read and reread the long letter. Then she leaned back in her chair
and with the letter in her lap sat there--thinking. She had been right
in her forebodings; it was as she had expected, had foreseen: Edwin
Smith, man of affairs, wealthy, arbitrary, eccentric, accustomed to
having his own way and his prejudices, however absurd, respected--a man
with an only son for whom, doubtless, plans definite and ambitious had
been made, could not be expected calmly to permit the upsetting of those
plans by his boy's marriage to a poor "Down-Easter." So much she had
foreseen from the first, and she had never shared Crawford's absolute
confidence in his parent's acquiescence. She had been prepared,
therefore, to read that Mr. Smith had refused his consent.

But to be prepared for a probability and to face a certainty are quite
different. It was the certainty she was facing now. Unless Mr. Smith
changed his mind, and the chances were ten to one against that, he a