“Oh, mamma!”

“My dear, you must not hinder me in doing what I think to be a duty.  I heard what he said to you and what you replied, and of course I cannot but have my mind full of the subject.  Why should you set yourself against him in so fixed a manner?”

“Because I love another man.”  These words she spoke out loud, in a steady, almost dogged tone, with a certain show of audacity,—­as though aware that the declaration was unseemly, but resolved that, though unseemly, it must be made.

“But, Lily, that love, from its very nature, must cease; or, rather, such love is not the same as that you felt when you thought that you were to be his wife.”

“Yes, it is.  If she died, and he came to me in five years time, I would still take him.  I should think myself constrained to take him.”

“But she is not dead, nor likely to die.”

“That makes no difference.  You don’t understand me, mamma.”

“I think I do, and I want you to understand me also.  I know how difficult is your position; I know what your feelings are; but I know this also, that if you could reason with yourself, and bring yourself in time to receive John Eames as a dear friend—­”

“I did receive him as a dear friend.  Why not?  He is a dear friend.  I love him heartily,—­as you do.”

“You know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do; and I tell you it is impossible.”

“If you would make the attempt, all this misery would soon be forgotten.  If once you could bring yourself to regard him as a friend, who might become your husband, all this would be changed,—­and I should see you happy!”

“You are strangely anxious to be rid of me, mamma!”

“Yes, Lily;—­to be rid of you in that way.  If I could see you put your hand in his as his promised wife, I think that I should be the happiest woman in the world.”

“Mamma, I cannot make you happy in that way.  If you really understood my feelings, my doing as you propose would make you very unhappy.  I should commit a great sin,—­the sin against which women should be more guarded than against any other.  In my heart I am married to that other man.  I gave myself to him, and loved him, and rejoiced in his love.  When he kissed me I kissed him again, and I longed for his kisses.  I seemed to live only that he might caress me.  All that time I never felt myself to be wrong,—­because he was all in all to me.  I was his own.  That has been changed,—­to my great misfortune; but it cannot be undone or forgotten.  I cannot be the girl I was before he came here.  There are things that will not have themselves buried and put out of sight, as though they had never been.  I am as you are, mamma,—­widowed.  But you have your daughter, and I have my mother.  If you will be contented, so will I.”  Then she got up and threw herself on her mother’s neck.

Mrs Dale’s argument was over now.  To such an appeal as that last made by Lily no rejoinder on her part was possible.  After that she was driven to acknowledge to herself that she must be silent.  Years as they rolled on might make a change, but no reasoning could be of avail.  She embraced her daughter, weeping over her,—­whereas Lily’s eyes were dry.  “It shall be as you will,” Mrs Dale murmured.