Then Charlotte’s face grew like a flame; and she answered, in a tone of tender sadness, “Father thinks Steve loves me; and he says there is no love-line between our houses, and that, if there were, it is crossed with sorrow, and that neither the living nor the dead will have marriage between Steve and me.”

“I thought that was the trouble.  I did so.  As for the living, he speaks for himself; as for the dead, it is your grandmother Sandal he thinks of.  She was a hard, proud woman, Charlotte.  Her two daughters rejoiced at their wedding-days, and two out of her three sons she drove away from their home.  Your father was on the point of going, when his brother Launcie’s death made him the heir.  Then she gave him a bit more respect, and for pretty Alice Morecombe’s sake he stayed by the old squire.  Ten years your mother waited for William Sandal, Charlotte.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Do you love Steve, Charlotte?  I am Steve’s mother, dear, and you may speak to me as if you were talking to your own heart.  I would never tell Steve either this way or that way for any thing.  Steve would not thank me if I did.  He is one of them that wants to reach his happiness in his own way, and by his own hand.  And I have good reasons for asking you such a question, or I would not ask it; you may be sure I have, that you may.”

Charlotte had put down her cup, and she sat with her hands clasped upon her lap, looking down into it.  Ducie’s question took her by surprise, and she was rather offended by it.  For Charlotte Sandal had been taught all the reticences of good society, and for a moment she resented a catechism so direct and personal; but only for a moment.  Before Ducie had done speaking, she had remembered that nothing but true kindness could have prompted the inquiry.  Ducie was not a curious, tattling, meddlesome woman; Charlotte had never known her to interfere in any one’s affairs.  She had few visitors, and she made no calls.  Year in and year out, Ducie could always be found at home with herself.

“You need not tell me, dear, if you do not know; or if you do not want to tell me.”

“I do know, Ducie; and I do not mind telling you in the least.  I love Stephen very dearly.  I have loved him ever since—­I don’t know when.”

“And you have always had as good and as true as you have given.  Steve is fondly heart-grown to you, Charlotte.  But we will say no more; and what we have said is dropped into my heart like a stone dropped into deep water.”

Then they spoke of the rector, how he was failing a little; and of one of the maids at Seat-Sandal who was to marry the head shepherd at Up-Hill; and at last, when there had been enough of indifferent talk to effectually put Steve out of mind, Ducie asked suddenly, “How is Harry, and is he doing well?”

This was a subject Charlotte was glad to discuss with Ducie.  Harry was a great favorite with her, and had been accustomed to run to Up-Hill whenever he was in any boyish scrape.  And Harry was not doing well.  “Father is vexed and troubled about him, Ducie,” she answered.  “Whenever a letter comes from Harry, it puts every thing wrong in the house.  Mother goes away and cries; and Sophia sulks because, she says, ’it is a shame any single one of the family should be allowed to make all the rest uncomfortable.’”