“That girl!” she cried.  “One of the Olliviers!  O Martin, you must marry in your own class.”

“That was a mistake,” I answered.  “Her Christian name is Olivia; I do not know what her surname is.”

“Not know even her name!” she exclaimed.

“Listen, mother,” I said; and then I told her all I knew about Olivia, and drew such a picture of her as I had seen her, as made my mother smile and sigh deeply in turns.

“But she may be an adventuress; you know nothing about her,” she objected.  “Surely, you cannot love a woman you do not esteem?”

“Esteem!” I repeated.  “I never thought whether I esteemed Olivia, but I am satisfied I love her.  You may be quite sure she is no adventuress.  An adventuress would not hide herself in Tardif’s out-of-the-world cottage.”

“A girl without friends and without a name!” she sighed; “a runaway from her family and home!  It does not look well, Martin.”

I could answer nothing, and it would be of little use to try.  I saw when my mother’s prejudices could blind her.  To love any one not of our own caste was a fatal error in her eyes.

“Does Julia know all this?” she asked.

“She has not heard a word about Olivia,” I answered.  “As soon as I told her I loved some one else better than her, she bade me begone out of her sight.  She has not an amiable temper.”

“But she is an upright, conscientious, religious woman,” she said, somewhat angrily.  “She would never have run away from her friends; and we know all about her.  I cannot think what your father will say, Martin.  It has given him more pleasure and satisfaction than any thing that has happened for years.  If this marriage is broken off, it upsets every thing.”

Of course it would upset every thing; there was the mischief of it.  The convulsion would be so great, that I felt ready to marry Julia in order to avoid it, supposing she would marry me.  That was the question, and it rested solely with her.  I would almost rather face the long, slow weariness of an unsuitable marriage than encounter the immediate results of the breaking off of our engagement just on the eve of its consummation.  I was a coward, no doubt, but events had hurried me on too rapidly for me to stand still and consider the cost.

“O Martin, Martin!” wailed my poor mother, breaking down again suddenly.  “I had so set my heart upon this!  I did so long to see you in a home of your own!  And Julia was so generous, never looking as if all the money was hers, and you without a penny!  What is to become of you now, my boy?  I wish I had been dead and in my grave before this had happened!”

“Hush, mother!” I said, kneeling down again beside her and kissing her tenderly; “it is still in Julia’s hands.  If she will marry me, I shall marry her.”

“But then you will not be happy?” she said, with fresh sobs.

It was impossible for me to contradict that.  I felt that no misery would be equal to that of losing Olivia.  But I did my best to comfort my mother, by promising to see Julia the next day and renew my engagement, if possible.