“You are making yourself ridiculous, Marcella.  Pity for these wretched people is all very well, but you have no business to carry it to such a point that you—­and we—­become the talk, the laughing-stock of the county.  And I should like to see you, too, pay some attention to Aldous Raeburn’s feelings and wishes.”

The admonition, in her father’s mouth, would almost have made her laugh, if she could have laughed at anything.  But, instead, she only repeated: 

“I must go, I have explained to mamma.”

“Evelyn! why do you permit it?” cried Mr. Boyce, turning aggressively to his wife.

“Marcella explained to me, as she truly said,” replied Mrs. Boyce, looking up calmly.  “It is not her habit to ask permission of any one.”

“Mamma,” exclaimed the girl, in her deep voice, “you would not wish to stop me?”

“No,” said Mrs. Boyce, after a pause, “no.  You have gone so far, I understand your wish to do this.  Richard,”—­she got up and went to him,—­“don’t excite yourself about it; shall I read to you, or play a game with you?”

He looked at her, trembling with anger.  But her quiet eye warned him that he had had threatenings of pain that afternoon.  His anger sank into fear.  He became once more irritable and abject.

“Let her gang her gait,” he said, throwing himself into a chair.  “But I tell you I shall not put up with this kind of thing much longer, Marcella.”

“I shall not ask you, papa,” she said steadily, as she moved towards the door.  Mrs. Boyce paused where she stood, and looked after her daughter, struck by her words.  Mr. Boyce simply took them as referring to the marriage which would emancipate her before long from any control of his, and fumed, without finding a reply.

The maid-servant who, by Mrs. Boyce’s orders, was to accompany Marcella to the village, was already at the front door.  She carried a basket containing invalid food for little Willie, and a lighted lantern.

It was a dark night and raining fast.  Marcella was fastening up her tweed skirt in the hall, when she saw Mrs. Boyce hurry along the gallery above, and immediately afterwards her mother came across the hall to her.

“You had better take the shawl, Marcella:  it is cold and raw.  If you are going to sit up most of the night you will want it.”

She put a wrap of her own across Marcella’s arm.

“Your father is quite right,” she went on.  “You have had one horrible experience to-day already—­”

“Don’t, mamma!” exclaimed Marcella, interrupting her.  Then suddenly she threw her arms round her mother.

“Kiss me, mamma! please kiss me!”

Mrs. Boyce kissed her gravely, and let herself even linger a moment in the girl’s strong hold.

“You are extraordinarily wilful,” she said.  “And it is so strange to me that you think you do any good.  Are you sure even that she wants to have you?”