“I would have you choose some occupation, Oswald.”

“What occupation?  What is it that you mean?  Ought I to be a shoemaker?”

“Not that by preference, I should say; but that if you please.”  When her lover had frowned at her, Violet had resolved,—­had strongly determined, with inward assertions of her own rights,—­that she would not be frightened by him.

“You are talking nonsense, Violet.  You know that I cannot be a shoemaker.”

“You may go into Parliament.”

“I neither can, nor would I if I could.  I dislike the life.”

“You might farm.”

“I cannot afford it.”

“You might,—­might do anything.  You ought to do something.  You know that you ought.  You know that your father is right in what he says.”

“That is easily asserted, Violet; but it would, I think, be better that you should take my part than my father’s, if it be that you intend to be my wife.”

“You know that I intend to be your wife; but would you wish that I should respect my husband?”

“And will you not do so if you marry me?” he asked.

Then Violet looked into his face and saw that the frown was blacker than ever.  The great mark down his forehead was deeper and more like an ugly wound than she had ever seen it; and his eyes sparkled with anger; and his face was red as with fiery wrath.  If it was so with him when she was no more than engaged to him, how would it be when they should be man and wife?  At any rate, she would not fear him,—­not now at least.  “No, Oswald,” she said.  “If you resolve upon being an idle man, I shall not respect you.  It is better that I should tell you the truth.”

“A great deal better,” he said.

“How can I respect one whose whole life will be,—­will be—?”

“Will be what?” he demanded with a loud shout.

“Oswald, you are very rough with me.”

“What do you say that my life will be?”

Then she again resolved that she would not fear him.  “It will be discreditable,” she said.

“It shall not discredit you,” he replied.  “I will not bring disgrace on one I have loved so well.  Violet, after what you have said, we had better part.”  She was still proud, still determined, and they did part.  Though it nearly broke her heart to see him leave her, she bid him go.  She hated herself afterwards for her severity to him; but, nevertheless, she would not submit to recall the words which she had spoken.  She had thought him to be wrong, and, so thinking, had conceived it to be her duty and her privilege to tell him what she thought.  But she had no wish to lose him;—­no wish not to be his wife even, though he should be as idle as the wind.  She was so constituted that she had never allowed him or any other man to be master of her heart,—­till she had with a full purpose given her heart away.  The day before she had resolved to give it to one man, she might,