“Love you, Ellen?  How can she help loving you?”

“I do not know why any one should love me,” was the artless reply.

“I do not know how any one can help loving you.”

“Ah, you may think so, but every one does not see with your eyes; and maybe, you are only blinded.  I am not perfect, Charles; don’t forget that.”

“You are perfect to me, and that is all I ask.  But say, Ellen, dear, sha’n’t we be married in a month?”

“I am so young, Charles; and then I ought to be certain that your mother is willing.  Does she know all about it?  You have written to her, have you not?”

The young man did not reply for some moments.  Then he said—­“Never fear, Ellen; my mother will love you as her own child, when she sees and knows you.  I have not written about you to her, because, as I must tell you, my mother, though one of the best of women, is a little proud of her standing in society.  The moment I write to her on the subject, she will have a dozen grave questions to ask about your family, and whether they are connected with this great personage or that—­questions that I despair of answering, in a letter, to her satisfaction.  But your dear face will explain all, and stop all inquiries, when I present you to her as my wife.”

“Don’t be so certain of that, Charles.  If your mother is proud of her family, she will be mortified and displeased should her son marry an unknown girl.”

“The proudest mother on earth would receive you into her bosom, and call you daughter, without an emotion of wounded pride,” was the lover’s confident reply.  “I know it.  I know my mother too well, not to be confident on this subject.”

“You ought to know, Charles; but I would much rather be certain.  I love you better than my life; but if I thought that your marrying me would separate you from your mother’s love, I would never consent to a union.  Ah, there can be no love so pure, so deep, so unselfish as a mother’s love.  A mother!  Oh, how sweet the name! how holy the office!  I can remember, though but faintly, my own mother.  I was but a little girl when I lost her, but I still see her face as it often bent over me while I lay in my bed, and still, at times, can hear her voice.  Oh, what would I not have given had she lived!  Ah, Charles, be sure that in no act of your life you wrong your mother, or give her pain.”

Charles Linden belonged to a family that claimed descent from some distinguished ancestor on the mother’s side—­some one who had come from England a long time ago, and who, when there, was ranked one of gentle blood.  Of the worth of his principles, little was known.  He may have been a high-minded and honourable man, or he may have possessed qualities worthy of the detestation of all.  Be that as it may, Mrs. Linden valued herself highly on having come down in a right line, through three generations, from this distinguished individual; and there were plenty