as a misfortune to them all, to Mary herself as well as others, how could Mary do other than love him?  ‘Beatrice is his sister,’ she would say within her own mind, ’otherwise she would never talk like this; were she not his sister, she could not but know the value of such love as this.’  Ah! yes; Mary did love him; love him with all the strength of her heart; and the strength of her heart was very great.  And now by degrees, in those lonely donkey-rides at Boxall Hill, in those solitary walks, she was beginning to own to herself the truth.

And now that she did own it, what should be her course?  What should she do, how should she act if this loved one persevered in his love?  And, ah! what should she do, how should she act if he did not persevere?  Could it be that there should be happiness in store for her?  Was it not too clear that, let the matter go how it would, there was no happiness in store for her?  Much as she might love Frank Gresham, she could never consent to be his wife unless the squire would smile on her as his daughter-in-law.  The squire had been all that was kind, all that was affectionate.  And then, too, Lady Arabella!  As she thought of the Lady Arabella a sterner form of thought came across her brow.  Why should Lady Arabella rob her of her heart’s joy?  What was Lady Arabella that she, Mary Thorne, need quail before her?  Had Lady Arabella stood only in her way, Lady Arabella, flanked by the De Courcy legion, Mary felt that she could have demanded Frank’s hand as her own before them all without a blush of shame or a moment’s hesitation.  Thus, when her heart was all but ready to collapse within her, would she gain some little strength by thinking of the Lady Arabella.

‘Please, my lady, here be young squire Gresham,’ said one of the untutored servants at Boxall Hill, opening Lady Scatcherd’s little parlour door as her ladyship was amusing herself by pulling down and turning, and re-folding, and putting up again, a heap of household linen which was kept in a huge press for the express purpose of supplying her with occupation.

Lady Scatcherd, holding a vast counterpane in her arms, looked back over her shoulders and perceived that Frank was in the room.  Down went the counterpane on the ground, and Frank soon found himself in the very position which that useful article had so lately filled.

‘Oh!  Master Frank! oh, Master Frank!’ said her ladyship, almost in an hysterical fit of joy; and then she hugged and kissed him as she had never kissed and hugged her own son since that son had first left the parent nest.

Frank bore it patiently and with a merry laugh.  ‘But, Lady Scatcherd,’ said he, ‘what will they all say? you forget I am a man now,’ and he stooped his head as she again pressed her lips upon his forehead.

’I don’t care what none of ’em say,’ said her ladyship, quite going back to her old days; ’I will kiss my own boy; so I will.  Eh, but Master Frank, this is good on you.  A sight of you is good for sore eyes; and my eyes have been sore enough since I saw you;’ and she put her apron up to wipe a tear away.