’Now, Miss Crawley, pray listen to me; I will speak to you very openly.  I must speak to you openly, because it is my duty on my son’s behalf—­but I will endeavour to speak to you kindly also.  Of yourself I have heard nothing but what is favourable, and there is no reason as yet why I should not respect and esteem you.’  Grace told herself that she would do nothing which ought to forfeit his respect and esteem, but that she did not care two straws whether his respect and esteem were bestowed on her or not.  She was striving after something very different from that.  ’If my son were to marry you, he would greatly injure himself, and would very greatly injure his child.’  Again he paused.  He had told her to listen, and she was resolved that she would listen—­unless he would say something which might make a word from her necessary at the moment.  ’I do not know whether there does at present exist any engagement between you.’

‘There is no engagement, sir.’

’I am glad of that—­very glad of it.  I do not know whether you are aware that my son is dependent upon me for the greater part of his income.  It is so, and as I am so circumstanced with my son, of course, I feel the closest possible concern in his future prospects.’  The archdeacon did not know how to explain clearly why the fact of his making his son an annual allowance should give him a warmer interest in his son’s affairs than he might have had had the major been altogether independent of him; but he trusted that Grace would understand this by her own natural lights.  ’Now, Miss Crawley, of course I cannot wish to say a word that will hurt your feelings.  But there are reasons—­’

‘I know,’ said she, interrupting him.  ’Papa is accused of stealing money.  He did not steal it, but people think he did.  And then we are so very poor.’

‘You do understand me then—­and I feel grateful; I do indeed.’

‘I don’t think our being poor ought to signify a bit,’ said Grace.  ’Papa is a gentleman, and a clergyman, and mamma is a lady.’

‘But, my dear—­’

’I know I ought not to be your son’s wife as long as people think that papa stole the money.  If he had stolen it, I ought never to be Major Grantly’s wife—­or anybody else’s.  I know that very well.  And as for Edith—­I would sooner die than do anything that would be bad to her.’

The archdeacon had now left the rug, and advanced till he was almost close to the chair on which Grace was sitting.  ‘My dear,’ he said,’ what you say does you very much honour—­very much honour indeed.’  Now that he was close to her, he could look into her eyes, and he could see the exact form of her features, and could understand—­could not help understanding—­the character of her countenance.  It was a noble face, having in it nothing that was poor, nothing that was mean, nothing that was shapeless.  It was a face that promised infinite beauty, with a promise that was on the very verge of fulfilment.  There was a play