"But I love the Doctor," said Mary, evasively.

"_Love!_" said Madame de Frontignac. "Oh, Marie! you may love him well,
but you and I both know that there is something deeper than that. What
will you _do_ with this young man? Must he move away from this place,
and not be with his poor mother any more? Or can you see him, and hear
him, and be with him, after your marriage, and not feel that you love
him more than your husband?"

"I should hope that God would help me to feel right," said Mary.

"I am very much afraid He will not, _ma chere._ I asked Him a great
many times to help _me,_ when I found how wrong it all was; but He did
not. You remember what you told me the other day,--that, if I would do
right, I must not _see_ that man any more. You will have to ask him to
go away from this place; you can never see him; for this love will
never die till you die;--that you may be sure of. Is it wise? is it
right, dear little one? _Must_ he leave his home forever for you? or
must you struggle always, and grow whiter and whiter, and fall away
into heaven, like the moon this morning, and nobody know what is the
matter? People will say you have the liver-complaint, or the
consumption, or something. Nobody ever knows what we women die of."

Poor Mary's conscience was fairly posed. This appeal struck upon her
sense of right as having its grounds. She felt inexpressibly confused
and distressed.

"Oh, I wish somebody would tell me exactly what is right!" she said.

"Well, _I_ will," said Madame de Frontignac. "Go down to the dear