breath. She was very pale, and her eyes looked as if she had cried
all night, but she controlled her voice to say, 'I could not bear
that you should hear it from Aunt Melicent.'

'We had letters this morning, dearest. Always thinking for me! But
I must think for you. You can hardly stand--'

He would have supported her to the sofa, but she shrank from him;
and, leaning more heavily on the chair, said--'Do you not know,
Louis, all that must be at an end?'

'I know no such thing. My father is here on purpose to assure you
that it makes not the slightest difference to him.'

'Yours! Yes! But oh, Louis!' with a voice that, in its faintness
and steadiness, had a sound of anguish--'only think what I allowed
him to make me do! To insult my father and his choice! It was a
mistake, I know,' she continued, fearing to be unjust and to grieve
Louis; 'but a most dreadful one!'

'He says he should have brought you home all the same--' began Louis.
'Mary, you must sit down!' he cried, interrupting himself to come
nearer; and she obeyed, sinking into the chair. 'What a state you
are in! How could you go through yesterday? How could you be
distressed, and not let me know?'

'I could not spoil their wedding-day, that we had wished for so
long.'

'Then you had the letter?'