As her story proceeded Mrs. Simcoe looked more and more anxiously at Hope, whose eyes were fixed upon her incessantly.  The older woman paused at this point, and, taking Hope’s face between her hands, smoothed her hair, and kissed her.

“Your grandfather had a daughter Mary.”

“My mother,” said Hope, earnestly.

“Your mother, darling.  She was as beautiful but as delicate as a flower.  The doctors said a long salt voyage would strengthen her.  So your grandfather sent her in the ship of one of his friends to India.  In India she staid several weeks, and met a young man of her own age, clerk in a house there.  Of course they were soon engaged.  But he was young, not yet in business, and she knew the severity of your grandfather and his ambition for her.  At length the ship returned, and your mother returned in it.  Scarcely was she at home a month than your grandfather told me that he had a connection in view for his daughter, and wanted me to prepare her to receive the addresses of a gentleman a good deal older than she, but of the best family, and in every way a desirable husband.  He was himself getting old, he said, and it was necessary that his daughter should marry.  Your mother loved me dearly, as I did her.  Gentle soul, with her soft, dark, appealing eyes, with her flower-like fragility and womanly dependence.  Ah me! it was hard that your grandfather should have been her parent.

“She was stunned when I told her.  I thought her grief was only natural, and I was surprised at the sudden change in her.  She faded before our eyes.  We could not cheer her.  But she made no effort to resist.  She did not refuse to see her suitor; she did not say that she loved any one else.  I think she had a mortal fear of her father, and, dear soul! she could not do any thing that required resolution.

“One day your grandfather said at dinner, ’To-morrow, Miss Mary, your new friend will be here.’

“All night she lay awake, trembling and tearful; and at morning she rose like a spectre.  The stranger arrived.  Mary kept her room until dinner-time.  Then we both went down to see the new-comer.  He was in the library with your grandfather, and was engaged in telling him some very amusing story when we came in, for your grandfather was laughing heartily.  They both rose upon seeing us.

“‘Colonel Wayne, my daughter,’ said your grandfather, waving his hand toward her.  He bowed—­she sank, spectre-like, into a chair.

“‘Mrs. Simcoe, Colonel Wayne.’

“Our eyes met.  It was my lover.  He was too much amazed to bow.  But in a moment he recovered himself, smiled courteously, and seated himself; for he saw at once what place I filled in the household.  I said nothing.  I remember that I sank into a chair and looked at him.  He was older, but the same charm still hovered about his person.  His voice had the same secret music, and his movement that careless grace which seemed to spring from the consciousness of power.  I was conscious of only two things—­that I loved him, and that he was unworthy the love of any woman.