Neither of them, nor indeed any other living creature, knew of a little episode which had occurred about eighteen months previously, when Joanna Bowater had been taking care of Mrs Poynsett during Raymond’s first absence from home after her accident.  Of course he took her back to Strawyers as soon as he arrived; and about half-way, after a prolonged and unusual silence, he said, “Jenny, I believe we know one another’s histories pretty well.  It would be a great happiness and blessing if you could bring yourself to sink the past so far as to take me, and become indeed my mother’s daughter.  Do not answer me in haste.  Think it over, and tell me if it is possible.”

Jenny let him drive on more than a mile before she spoke; and when she did, the tears stood on her cheek, and it was quite an effort that her voice was made steady.  “No, Raymond, I am very sorry, but it will not do.  Two griefs will not make one joy.”

“Yes, they would, to my mother.”

“Ah! there it lies!  Indeed, Raymond, I do feel for you all so much, especially your dear mother, that I would bring myself to it, if I could; but the very thought brings Archie up so vividly before me that I cannot!  He has almost seemed to be sitting by me all this time.  It seems as though beginning again would kill my right to think of him foremost of all.”

“I could bear with that and trust to time,” said Raymond.  “Think it over, Jenny.  I will be candid with you.  The old delusion was too strong for any repetition of that kind, as you may see by the lame performance I am making now.”

Jenny gave a little agitated laugh, and ejaculated, “Dear Raymond!” then added, “It is not on your account, but mine.”

“But,” he added, “my marriage is becoming a necessity, if only for my mother’s sake; and you stand far before any other woman with me, if that would but satisfy you.  I verily believe that in a short time we should be just as comfortable together as if we could start with more romance.”

“I dare say we should, dear Raymond,” said Jenny; “but I cannot feel that it is the right thing, while I have not that feeling for you which overpowers everything else; it seems to me that I ought not to give up my place at home.  Papa depends on me a good deal, and they both will want me more and more.”

“Less than my mother.”

“I don’t know; and they are my first duty.  I can always come to your mother when I am wanted, and I know in your secret soul you prefer me on those terms.”

He made no answer, only when passing the lodge he said, “Will you consider it a little longer, Jenny?”

But this only resulted in a note:—­

“DEAR RAYMOND,—­Considering only shows me that I must be Archie Douglas’s now and for ever.  I can’t help it.  It is better for you; for you can find some young girl who can wake your heart again, as never could be done by your still affectionate J. B.”