It fell flat that she had last been seen full-dressed going off to a party.

“Then, if there’s nothing, what brought you here?  I mean,” said poor Allen, catching up his courtesy, “I’m afraid there’s nothing you or any one else can do.”

“Can I see your mother?”

Allen turned him into the library and went off to find his mother, and instruct her to discover from “that stupid fellow” how Elvira was feeling it.  When, after putting away the papers she was trying to arrange, Caroline went downstairs, she had no sooner opened the door than Barbara flew up to her, crying out—-

“Oh, mother, tell him not!”

“Tell him what, my dear?” as the girl hung on her, and dragged her into the ante-room.  “What is the matter?”

“If it is nonsense, he ought not to have made it so like earnest,” said Babie, all crimson, but quite gravely.

“You don’t mean-—”

“Yes, mother.”

“How could he?” cried Caroline, in her first annoyance at such things beginning with her Babie.

“You’ll tell him, mother.  You’ll not let him do it again?”

“Let me go, my child.  I must speak to him and find out what it all means.”

Within the library she was met by Fordham.

“Have I done very wrong, Mrs. Brownlow?  I could not help it.”

“I wish you had not.”

“I always meant to wait till she was older, and I grew stronger, but when all this came, I thought if we all belonged to one another it might be a help-—”

“Very, very kind, but—-”

“I know I was sudden and frightened her,” he continued; “but if she could-—”

“You forget how young she is.”

“No, I don’t.  I would not take her from you.  We could all go on together.”

“All one family?  Oh, you unpractised boy!”

“Have we not done so many winters?  But I would wait, I meant to have waited, only I am afraid of dying without being able to provide for her.  If she would have me, she would be left better off than my mother, and then it would be all right for you and Armie.  What are you smiling at?”

“At your notions of rightness, my dear, kind Duke.  I see how you mean it, but it will not do.  Even if she had grown to care for you, it would not be right for me to give her to you for years to come.”

“May not I hope till then?”

She could not tell how sorry she should be to see in her little daughter any dawnings of an affection which would be a virtual condemnation to such a life as his mother’s had been.

“You don’t guess how I love her!  She has been the bright light of my life ever since the Engelberg,—-the one hope I have lived for!”

“My poor Duke!”

“Then do you quite mean to deny me all hope?”

“Hope must be according to your own impressions, my dear Fordham.  Of course, if you are well, and still wishing it four or five years hence, it would be free to you to try again.  More, I cannot say.  No, don’t thank me, for I trust to your honour to make no demonstrations in the meantime, and not to consider yourself as bound.”