an absolute slave to affection, but was altogether hardened to severity, and when she failed in herself enforcing her authority, she made the great and most unlucky mistake of appealing to George Wynter.  Mary, up to that time, had had no dislike to her cousin.  He was nearly twenty years older than herself, an excellent man, who took everything au pied de la lettre, and who, perceiving that what Miss Smith said was reasonable, thought duty and common sense required him to “speak to” her unreasonable pupil.  He never discovered his mistake—­nor Miss Smith hers; but things grew more and more uncomfortable.  Miss Smith tired of her struggles, and sought more manageable pupils; and Mary, immediately after her fifteenth birthday, was sent to school.

Removed to a new atmosphere, no longer chilled by loneliness or embittered by the consciousness of perpetual disapproval, the girl began to bloom sweetly and naturally.  For the first time she was fortunate in her surroundings.  Companionship made her gay, and emulation woke keen and successful ambition.  Nearly three years passed, and, in place of ignorance and insubordination, she had gained a bright intelligence and a becoming submission.  At seventeen she returned home, a girl who would have brought to a mother both pride and anxiety.

But there was no mother to receive her.  At the sight of her, her father was a little shaken out of his accustomed thoughts and habits.  He tried to imagine what his wife would have done or counselled for their child’s good, but his imagination was unpractised and would not help him much.  He made one great effort for her sake.  He took her abroad, and for a whole year travelled about, showing her much that was best worth seeing in the south of Europe—­but seeing places chiefly, people seldom.  In all this time she saw nothing of her cousin George—­he had almost fallen out of her acquaintance, and taken the place of a disagreeable memory.  But when she and her father came home, he was there to receive them, and she began to realize that his presence was to be an essential part of her home life.  More than that, she now perceived how distinctly he stood between her and her father—­a fact she had forgotten while they were together without him.  The acquaintance and sympathy between them, which had been slowly growing up during their year of travel, froze to death now that he was there; and Mary, at eighteen, found herself completely isolated.

It did not occur to her father that she ought to go into society, or that she needed a chaperone.  Society had lost all its charms for him; and he intended to marry his daughter early, and so give her the best of protection.  Neither did it seem necessary to him that she should be consulted in any way about her marriage.  However insubordinate she might as a child have been to others, to him, whenever they were brought into direct contact, she had always been perfectly submissive, and he expected her to continue