An hour after, he was on the way from the village that he might spend the coming Sabbath in another town.

And, after he was gone, the mother sought her younger, her dearly loved child.  Rosalie heard that familiar step on the stairway; she had seen Duncan hurrying away from the house, and she knew the conference was over; but she had no fear for the result.  So she hushed the glad tumultuous beating of her heart, and tried to veil the brightness of her eyes as she heard the gentle tapping at her door that announced the mother coming.

As for Mrs. Melville, her heart quite failed her when she went into the pleasant room, and sat down close by Rosalie.  In spite of all the strengthening thoughts of duty which she had taken with her as a support in that interview, she was now at a sore loss, for it had been a bitter grief to her kind heart when, of old, for duty’s sake, she made her children unhappy.  How then could sh endure to take away their life’s best joy, their richest hope?  It was a hard thing; and many moments passed before she could nerve her strong spirit to utter the first word.  Rosalie, anxious and impatient, too, but unsuspecting, at last exclaimed,

“What can it be that so much troubles you, mother?”

Then Mary Melville spoke, but with a voice so soft and sad, so faint with emotion, that it seemed not at all her voice.  She said,

“I want you to consider that what I say to you, dear child, has given me more pain even to think of than I have ever felt before.  Duncan has told me of your engagement to marry with him; and it has been my duty, my most sorrowful duty, oh! believe me, to tell him that such a tie must never unite you.  He can never be your husband; you can never be his wife.”

She paused, exhausted by her emotion; she could not utter another syllable.  Rosalie, who had watched her with fixed astonishment as she listened to the words, was the first to speak again, and she tried to say, calmly,

“Of course, you have a reason for saying so.  It is but just that I should know it.”

“It cannot be known.  If I had ever in my life deceived you, Rosalie, you might doubt me now, when I assure you that an impediment, which cannot be named, exists to the marriage.  Have I not been a mother to you always?” she asked, appealingly, imploringly:  “I love you as I love Duncan, and it cuts me to the heart to grieve you.”

“Has Duncan given you an answer?”

“Yes, Rosalie.”

“And it—?”

“He has trusted to his mother!” she said, almost proudly.

“Rather than me,” quickly interrupted Rosalie.

“Rather than do that which is wrong; which might hereafter prove the misery of you both, my child.”

“Where is he?  Why does he not come himself to tell me this?  If the thing is really true, his lips should have spoken it, and not another’s.”

“Oh!  Rosalie, he could not do it.  I believe his heart is broken.  Do not look so upon me.  Is it not enough that I bitterly regret, that I shall always deplore, having not foreseen the result of your companionship?  Say only that you do believe I have striven to do the best for you always, as far as I knew how.  I implore you, say it.”