“What does his mother think of his intentions toward me?” the young girl asked, so quietly, that Mrs. Vosburgh was really encouraged.

“He says that he and his mother differ on many points, and will differ on this one, and that is all he seemed inclined to say, except to remark significantly that he had attained his majority.”

“It was he whom you meant, when you said that some one might come who would divert my thoughts?”

“I think he would have come, had it not been for the storm.”

“Mamma, you have not given him any encouragement?  You have not compromised yourself, or me?”

Mrs. Vosburgh bridled with the beginnings of resentment, and said, “Marian, you should know me too well—­”

“There, there, mamma, I was wrong to think of such a thing; I ask your pardon.”

“I may have my sensible wishes and preferences,” resumed the lady, complacently, “but I have never yet acted the role of the anxious, angling mamma.  I cannot help wishing, however, that you would consider favorably an offer like this one, and I certainly could not treat Mr. Merwyn otherwise than with courtesy.”

“That was right and natural of you, mamma.  You have no controversy with Mr. Merwyn; I have.  I hate and detest him.  Well, since he may come, I shall dress and be prepared.”

“O Marian! you are so quixotic!”

“Dear mamma, you are mistaken.  Do not think me inconsiderate of you.  Some day I will prove I am not by my marriage, if I marry;” and she went to her mother and kissed her tenderly.

Then by a sudden transition she drew herself up with the dark, inscrutable expression that was becoming characteristic since deeper experiences had entered into her life, and said, firmly:—­

“Should I do as you suggest, I should be false to those true friends who have gone to fight, perhaps to die; false to my father; false to all that’s good and true in my own soul.  As to my heart,” she concluded, with a contemptuous shrug, “that has nothing to do with the affair.  Mamma, you must promise me one thing.  I do not wish you to meet Mr. Merwyn to-night.  Please excuse yourself if he asks for you.  I will see him.”

“Mark my words, Marian, you will marry a poor man.”

“Oh, I have no objection to millionnaires,” replied the girl, with a short, unmirthful laugh, “but they must begin their suit in a manner differing from that of two who have favored me;” and she went to her room.

As Merwyn resembled his deceased parent, so Marian had inherited not a little of her father’s spirit and character.  Until within the last few months her mother’s influence had been predominant, and the young girl had reflected the social conventionalities to which she was accustomed.  No new traits had since been created.  Her increasing maturity had rendered her capable of revealing qualities inherent in her nature, should circumstances evoke them.  The flower, as it expands, the plant as it grows,