Sophy went away, but presently returning and taking up her work, but with eyes that betrayed how she was listening; but there was so entire an apparent absence of personal suffering, that Albinia began to discharge the weight from her mind, and believe that the sentiment had been altogether imaginary even on Sophy’s side, and the whole a marvellous figment of her own.

At last, Mr. Kendal’s foot was heard; Sophy started up, and sat down again.  He came upstairs, and his face was all smiles.

‘Well,’ he said, ’I don’t think she will go by the three o’clock omnibus.’

‘You have spoken to her?’ cried Albinia in compunction.

‘Has Maurice finished?  Then go out, my boy, for the present.’

‘Well?’ said Albinia, interrogatively, and Sophy laid down her work and crossed one hand over the other on her knees, and leant back as though to hinder visible tremor.

‘Yes,’ he said, going on with what had been deferred till Maurice was gone.  ’I thought it hard on him—­and as I was going to speak to Edwards, I asked if she were at the Union, where I found her, taking leave of the old women, and giving them little packets of snuff, and small presents, chiefly her own work, I am sure.  I took her with me into the fields, and persuaded her at last to talk it over with me.  Poor little thing!  I never saw a more high-minded, conscientious spirit:  she was very unhappy about it, and said she knew it was all her unfortunate manner, she wished to be guarded, but a little excitement and conversation always turned her head, and she entreated me not to hinder her going back to a school-room, out of the way of every one.  I told her that she must not blame herself for being more than usually agreeable; but she would not listen, and I could hardly bring her to attend to what I said of young O’More.  Poor girl!  I believe she was running away from her own heart.’

‘You have prevented her?’ cried Sophy.

’At least I have induced her to hear his arguments.  I told her my opinion of him, which was hardly needed, and what I thought might have more weight—­that he has earned the right to please himself, and that I believed she would be better for him than riches.  She repeated several times “Not now,” and “Not here;” and I found that she was shocked at the idea of the subject being brought before us.  I was obliged to tell her that nothing would gratify any of us so much, and that this was the time to fulfil her promise of considering me as a father.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ murmured Sophy.

’So finally I convinced her that she owed Ulick a hearing, and I think she felt that to hear was to yield.  She had certainly been feeling that flight was the only measure, and between her dread of entrapping him and of hurting our feelings, had persuaded herself it was her duty.  The last thing she did was to catch hold of me as I was going, and ask if he knew what her father was.’