‘Yes, darling, I know.  Of course you loved him.’

‘Yes, mamma.  And I do love him.  How could one not love him?’

‘I love him—­for loving you.’

’But, mamma, one is bound not to do a harm to anyone that one loves.  So when he came to Allington I told him that I could not be his wife.’

‘Did you, my dear?’

’Yes; I did.  Was I not right?  Ought I to go to him to bring a disgrace upon all the family, just because he is so good that he asks me?  Shall I injure him because he wants to do me a service?’

’If he loves you, Grace, the service he will require will be your love in return.’

’That is all very well, mamma—­in books; but I do not believe it in reality.  Being in love is very nice, and in poetry they make it out to be everything.  But I do not think I should make Major Grantly happy if when I became his wife his own father and mother would not see him.  I know I should be so wretched, myself, that I could not live.’

‘But would it be so?’

’Yes;—­I think it would.  And the archdeacon is very rich, and can leave all his money away from Major Grantly if he pleases.  Think what I should feel if I were the cause of Edith losing her fortune!’

‘But why do you suppose these terrible things?’

’I have a reason for supposing them.  This must be a secret.  Miss Anne Prettyman wrote to me.’

‘I wish Miss Anne Prettyman’s hand had been in the fire.’

’No, mamma; no, she was right.  Would not I have wished, do you think, to have learned all the truth about the matter before I answered him?  Besides, it made no difference.  I could have made no other answer while papa is under such a terrible ban.  It is no time for us to think of being in love.  We have got to love each other.  Isn’t it so, mamma?’ The mother did not answer in words, but slipping down on her knees before her child threw her arms found her girl’s body in a close embrace.  ’Dear mamma; dearest mamma; this is what I wanted;—­that you should love me.’

‘Love you, my angel!’

’And trust me;—­and that we should understand each other, and stand close by each other.  We can do so much to comfort one another;—­but we cannot comfort other people.’

’He must know that best himself, Grace;—­but what did he say more to you?’

‘I don’t think he said anything more.’

‘He just left you then?’

‘He said one thing more.’

‘And what was that?’

‘He said—­but he had no right to say it.’

‘What was it, dear?’

’That he knew that I loved him, and that therefore—­But, mamma, do not think of that.  I will never be his wife—­never, in opposition to his family.’

‘But he did not take your answer?’

’He must take it, mamma.  He shall take it.  If he can be stubborn, so can I. If he knows how to think of me more than himself, I can think of him and Edith more than of myself.  That is not quite all, mamma.  Then he wrote to me.  There is his letter.’