and were there any other escape from the
position in which I am, but by a marriage
which I know would be a sin, depend upon
it, mamma, I would too gladly embrace it."

"A sin, my dear? That is such an
exaggerated way of talking .... you are
so very high-flown, as Sir Andrew says. I
am sure I am the last person who would
urge you to do anything sinful; and if Mr.
Durborough wasn't highly-principled, and
all that, I wouldn't press you—I wouldn't,
indeed. A man of that age, as Sir Andrew
say, is just what you want to quell your
impetuosity; and as to love, love-matches,
as a rule, turn out unhappily, there is no
denying it. A marriage founded upon
respect and esteem—–"

"I have no particular respect or esteem
for Mr. Durborough. Mamma, let us
understand each other. You want to get rid
of me; it is very natural. I don't the
least complain. I am in Sir Andrew's
way, and he makes you feel it, as he does
me. It is much better that I should stay
here no longer. Send me away, anywhere.
Let me go and earn my bread somehow,
and be no longer a burden upon your
husband; but do not try and force me into
this marriage, for I cannot and I will not
do it!"

"Really, I don't know what to do, you
are so violent, Maud! Who wants you
to 'earn your bread'? Such an expression!
We only want to see you comfortably
settled. It is a great anxiety—of
course it is, and I am sure Sir Andrew
has done everything for you, you could
possibly expect, and it is very ungrateful
of you talking in that way."

"I am only saying the truth, mamma,
and you know it ... As to marrying for
love, is it expecting too much that there
should be some, on one side or the other?
Mr. Durborough has chosen me like a cow
or a horse. For any ardent affection, I
might as well marry my grandfather. If
I can't love the man I marry, at least he
can love me, and I won't marry one who
chooses me like a cow or a horse."

She spoke with raillery, but Lady
Herriesson knew that the substance of her
daughter's words were said in sober earnest.
She tried, in a weak way, to prove that
the strength of Mr. Durborough's affection
was shown in his return to the charge
after a first rebuff, but Maud was not to be
taken in.

"He comes back because Sir Andrew
did not tell him all I said the first time,
and assured him of success, perhaps, if he
tried again. He had much better know
at once that it is of no use. Will you tell
Sir Andrew, mamma, or shall I?"

"Oh, I wash my hands of it," murmured
Lady Herriesson, with a helpless, deprecatory
movement of the paper-knife. "You
must talk to Sir Andrew yourself. I see
that I have no influence over you; you pay
no attention to me. And, after all I have
done for you, too, as Sir Andrew says——"
Here Lady Herriesson put her handkerchief
to her eyes.

"You are right, mamma. We had better
not speak again upon this subject, you and
I. It is useless; and I am only tempted
to say a great many things I had better
not say." With which speech Maud left
her mother's boudoir.

But the following morning, after breakfast,
in Sir Andrew's study, that battle was
fought in good earnest, which was to
determine Maud's whole future career.

Sir Andrew stood with his back to the
fire, his coat-tails turned up, his face very
red, his eyes burning angrily as he looked
at Maud, who stood before him. He had
placed a chair for her, when she had come
in, but she had chosen to stand, and had
been standing for the last quarter of an hour.
All the veteran force of argument had been
brought up, and had charged again and
again, and had been repulsed with loss.
And now the enemy, inflamed with the
rage and shame consequent on defeat, was
preparing for a last attack, in which no
quarter should be shown.

"Pray, may I ask what you intend to
do? Perhaps you mean to marry the
red-nosed parson, and live at my
park-gates with a swarm of children, and expect
me to support you?" (Maud coloured,
in spite of herself, as she thought of poor
Miles.) "If you do, you're confoundedly
mistaken. If you choose to make some
disgraceful marriage, which I suppose you
call romantic, remember I have nothing
further to say to you. I have already done
a great deal more for you, and borne your
airs with more patience than most men
would have done, but I tell you fairly my
patience is exhausted—there! Do you
know what your position is, young lady?
You haven't a farthing in the world you
can call your own! If it wasn't for me
you would be almost starving in a lodging
in Torquay! For seven years you have
lived in my house, and I defy any one to
say I haven't behaved well to you. You've
had a couple of horses of your own; I have
sent you to London, and paid your