It was certainly with a joyful and confident heart that, after he had spoken with Rosalie, Duncan sought his mother, to tell her of the whole of that bright future which opened now before him.

How then was he overcome with amazement and grief when Mrs. Melville told him it was a union to which she could never consent!  Then, for the first time in his life, the astonished young man heard of that stain which was on the name poor Rosalie bore.

He heard the story to the end, and, with a decision and energy that would have settled the matter with almost any other than his mother, he declared,

“Yet for all that, I will not give her up.”

“It would not be expected that you would fulfil the engagement.  Rosalie herself would not allow it, if she knew the truth of the matter.”

“But she need not know it.  There is no existing necessity.  Is it not enough that she is good and precious to me?  She is a noble woman, whose life has been, thanks to your guidance, beautiful and lofty.”

“God knows, I have striven to do my duty by her, but I know what I should have done if I had ever thought you would wish to change your relations with her, Duncan.”

“The world has not her equal!  It is cruel—­it is sinful—­in you, mother, to oppose our union.”

“She is a lovely woman; but, my son, there are myriads like her.”

“No not one!  Tell me you will never breathe a word of what you have told me to her!”

“Never.”

“Oh! thank you! thank you, mother! you could not wish another daughter.”

“But for that I have told you, I could not wish another.”

“Then I say you must not work this great injustice on us.  Rosalie loves me.  She has promised to be mine.  You will break my heart.”

“You are deluded and strongly excited, my son, or you would never speak so to me,” said the mother, with that persisting firmness with which the physician resorts to a desperate remedy for a desperate disease.  Then she spoke to him of all the relations in life he might yet be called upon to assume; of the misery which very possibly might follow this union in after days.  Hours passed on, and the conference was not ended, until, with a crushed heart, and a trembling voice, Duncan arose, abruptly, while his mother yet spoke, and he said,

“If the conclusion to which you have urged me, in God’s sight, is just, He will give me—­He will give Rosalie, too—­strength to abide by it.  But I can never speak to her of this, and I must find another home than yours and hers.  You must speak for me, mother; and let me charge you, do it gently.  Do not tell her all.  Let her think what she will, believe, as she must, that I am a wretch, past pardon; but do not blight her peace by telling all.”

“I promise you, Duncan,” was the answer, spoken through many tears, and in the deepest sorrow.