ike that!"

Lady Desmond's heart was somewhat softened by this appeal; nor would
I have it thought that she was a cruel woman, or an unnatural mother.
It had not been her lot to make an absolute, dearest, heartiest
friend of her daughter, as some mothers do; a friend between whom
and herself there should be, nay could be, no secrets. She could not
become young again in sharing the romance of her daughter's love, in
enjoying the gaieties of her daughter's balls, in planning dresses,
amusements, and triumphs with her child. Some mothers can do this;
and they, I think, are the mothers who enjoy most fully the delights
of maternity. This was not the case with Lady Desmond; but yet she
loved her child, and would have made any reasonable sacrifice for
what she regarded as that child's welfare.

"But, my dear," she said, in a softened tone, "you must tell me what
has occurred. Do you not know that it is my duty to ask, and yours
to tell me? It cannot be right that there should be any secret
understanding between yourself and Mr. Fitzgerald. You know that,
Clara, do you not?"

"Yes, mamma," said Clara, remembering that her lover had bade her
tell her mother everything.

"Well, my love?"

Clara's story was very simple, and did not, in fact, want any
telling. It was merely the old well-worn tale, so common through all
the world. "He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye!"
and she,--she was ready to go "to the mountain to hear a love-tale!"
One may say that an occurrence so very common could not want much
telling.

"Mamma; he says--"

"Well, my dear?"

"He says--. Oh, mamma! I could not help it."

"No, Clara; you certainly could not help what he might say to you.
You could not refuse to listen to him. A lady in such a case, when
she is on terms of intimacy with a gentleman, as you were with Mr.
Fitzgerald, is bound to listen to him, and to give him an answer. You
could not help what he might say, Clara. The question now is, what
answer did you give to what he said?"

Clara, who was still kneeling, looked up piteously into her mother's
face, sighed bitterly, but said nothing.

"He told you that he loved you, I suppose?"

"Yes, mamma."

"And I suppose you gave him some answer? Eh! my dear?"

The answer to this was another long sigh.

"But, Clara, you must tell me. It is absolutely necessary that I
should know whether you have given him any hope, and if so, how much.
Of course the whole thing must be