“Now that you have both lectured and threatened me as if I were a boy, I would like to ask one question.  Have I ever disgraced you yet?”

The husband and wife looked at each other, and were not a little perplexed how to meet this passive resistance.  In the same low, incisive tones, Vinton continued, “If you propose to turn me into the streets for loving Miss Jocelyn, do so at once, for I do love her, and I shall ever love her.”

“She shall not touch a penny of our money,” said Mrs. Arnold, with an implacable look.

“With me,” replied her son, with the same old vindictive glance, “it is not a question of pennies, but of life and death.  I feel toward Miss Jocelyn as I suppose my father once felt toward you, although what heart you had to win I cannot understand from your manner toward me.  I have seen considerable of society, but have never met a woman who could compare with Mildred Jocelyn in all that constitutes a true lady.  I shall not waste any words concerning the virtues of her heart upon such unsympathetic listeners, but I am at least a man in years, and have the right to love her.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Mrs. Arnold angrily, “there is no law which can prevent your disgracing yourself and us.”

“Nor is there any law or gospel, madam, for your unnatural, unsympathetic course toward your own flesh and blood.  Good-evening.”

“Now you see how strange and infatuated he has become,” she said to her husband after her son’s departure; but the old merchant shook his head in trouble and perplexity.

“We have been too hard upon him, I fear,” he said.

“If you weaken in this matter, I shall not,” she answered decisively.  “If he gives way to this folly, both I and my children will disown all kith and kin.”

“Well, well,” he replied impatiently, “it will have to be so, I suppose; but nevertheless I believe we have been too hard with him.”

CHAPTER XLVI

A FATAL ERROR

The next morning Arnold started out to visit the one rarely absent from his thoughts.  It was a lovely day in the latter part of June, and his heart grew glad and hopeful in spite of the discouraging conditions of his lot.  All the world could not prevent his loving Mildred, or destroy her faith, and at some time and in some way they would attain their happiness.  These hopes were like the bright summer sun, and he walked with a firmer and more elastic tread than he had ever known before.

When he reached the haggard old mansion his heart misgave him.  “Can it be reality,” he asked himself, “that she has been living in places like this?” and the half-defined fear entered his mind that she might have changed somewhat with her fortunes, and might no longer be in appearance the delicate, refined, beautiful girl that he had left so long since.  But his impatient heart gave him no time for such imaginings, and he hastened to gratify his intense desire to look upon her face.