“Mildred, my daughter,” she continued, “I have no secrets from you,—­least of all about matters that concern us both.  Don’t you see what I would say?  Don’t you know what would make our circle complete, inseparable?  Pardon the boldness of a fond mother, whose only desire is to see her children happy.”

Mildred felt a tear dropping upon the hand which Mrs. Kinloch held with a passionate grasp.  She felt the powerful magnetism which the woman exerted upon her, and she trembled, but still kept silent.

“It is for Hugh that I speak.  He loves you.  Has he not told you so?”

“I do not wish to talk with you about it,” said Mildred.

“But I have a right, as his mother and your guardian, to know.  I should be wanting in my duty, if I suffered your happiness to be perilled for want of a clear understanding between you.  Hugh is proud and sensitive, and you bashful and just the least foolish; so that you are at cross purposes.”

“Hugh fully understands my feelings towards him.”

“You have given him encouragement?” she asked, eagerly.

“None whatever:  it would have been wrong in me to do so.”

“Wrong to love him!  Why, he is your brother only in name.”

“Wrong to encourage him in a love I do not and cannot return,” replied Mildred, with a mighty effort, at the same time disengaging her hand.

Mrs. Kinloch could not repress a feeling of admiration, even in her despair, as she saw the clear, brave glance, the heightened color, and the heaving bosom of the girl.

“But, in time, you may think differently,” she said, almost piteously.

“I wished to be spared this pain, mother,” Mildred replied, trembling at her own boldness, “but you will not let me; and I must tell you, kindly, but decidedly, that I never could marry Hugh under any circumstances whatever.”

Her mother did not wince at the rebuff, but followed on even closer.  “And why?  Who is there more manly, well-educated, kindly, dutiful, than Hugh?”

“I don’t wish to analyze his character; probably we shouldn’t altogether agree in our judgment; but it is enough that I don’t feel in the least attracted by him, and that I could not love him, if he were all that you imagine.”

“Then you love another!” said Mrs. Kinloch, fiercely.

Mildred was excessively agitated; but, though her knees trembled, her voice was clear and soft as it had been.  “Yes, I do love another; and I don’t hesitate to avow it.”

“That blacksmith’s upstart?” in a still louder key.

“You mean Mark Davenport, probably, who deserves more respectful language.”

“Brought up in coal-dust,—­the spoiled and forward pet of a foolish old stutterer, who depends for his bread on his dirty work, and who, if he had only his own, would have to leave even the hovel he works in.”  It was fearful to see how these contemptuous words were hissed out by the infuriated woman.