“MARY.”

This letter was a chilling blow to poor Walter.  He took it into his own room and read it again and again.  It brought the tears into his own eyes, and discouraged him deeply for a time.  But, of course, he was not so disposed to succumb to authority as the weaker vessel was.  He wrote back: 

“My own Love,—­Don’t grieve for me.  I don’t care for anything so long as you love me.  I shall resist, of course.  As for my father, I am going to marry Julia to Percy Fitzroy, and so end my governor’s nonsense.  As for your father, I do not despair of softening him.  It is only a check; it is not a defeat.  Who on earth can part us if we are true to each other?  God bless you, dearest!  I did not think you loved me so much.  Your letter gives me comfort forever, and only disappointment for a time.  Don’t fret, sweet love.  It will be all right in the end.

“Your grateful, hopeful love, till death, WALTER.”

Mary opened this letter with a beating heart.  She read it with tears and smiles and utter amazement.  She knew so little about the male character that this way of receiving a knockdown blow astonished and charmed her.  She thought to herself, no wonder women look up to men.  They will have their own way; they resist, of course.  How sensible!  We give in, right or wrong.  What a comfort I have got a man to back me, and not a poor sorrowing, despairing, obeying thing like myself!

So she was comforted for the minute, and settled in her own mind that she would be good and obedient, and Walter should do all the fighting.  But letters soon cease to satisfy the yearning hearts of lovers unnaturally separated.  Walter and Mary lived so near each other, yet now they never met.  Bartley took care of that.  He told Mary she must not walk out without a maid or ride without a servant; and he gave them both special orders.  He even obliged her with his own company, though that rather bored him.

Under this severe restraint Mary’s health and spirits suffered, and she lost some of her beautiful color.

Walter’s spirits were kept up only by anger.  Julia Clifford saw he was in trouble, and asked him what was the matter.

“Oh, nothing that would interest you,” said he, rather sullenly.

“Excuse me,” said she.  “I am always interested in the troubles of my friends, and you have been a good friend to me.”

“It is very good of you to think so.  Well, then, yes, I am unhappy.  I am crossed in love.”

“Is it that fair girl you introduced me to when out riding?”

“Yes.”

“She is lovely.”

“Miss Clifford, she is an angel.”

“Ha! ha!  We are all angels till we are found out.  Who is the man?”

“What man?”

“That she prefers to my good Walter.  She deserves a good whipping, your angel.”

“Much obliged to you, Miss Clifford; but she prefers no man to your good Walter, though I am not worthy to tie her shoes.  Why, we are devoted to each other.”