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110 rebel against such taking, even though she did shine as an angel of light to one dear pair of eyes.

'I suppose she was right to tell you, only'

'Do not think, Mary, that I am going to scold you, or even that I am angry with you.'

'Oh, but I know you must be angry.'

'Indeed I am not. If I pledge myself to tell you the truth in everything, will you be equally frank with me?'

'Yes,' said Mary. But it was much easier for Felix to tell the truth than for Mary to be frank. I believe that schoolmasters often tell fibs to schoolboys, although it would be so easy for them to tell the truth. But how difficult it is for the schoolboy always to tell the truth to his master! Mary Snow was now as a schoolboy before her tutor, and it may almost be said that the telling of the truth was to her impossible. But of course she made the promise. Who ever said that she would not tell the truth when so asked?

'Have you ever thought, Mary, that you and I would not make each other happy if we were married?'

'No; I have never thought that,' said Mary innocently. She meant to say exactly that which she thought Graham would wish her to say, but she was slow in following his lead.

'It has never occurred to you that though we might love each other very warmly as friends—and so I am sure we always shall—yet we might not suit each other in all respects as man and wife?'

'I mean to do the very best I can; that is, if—if—if you are not too much offended with me now.'

'But, Mary, it should not be a question of doing the best you can. Between man and wife there should be no need of such effort. It should be a labour of love.'

'So it will;—and I'm sure I'll labour as hard as I can.'

Felix began to perceive that the line he had taken would not answer the required purpose, and that he must be somewhat more abrupt with her,—perhaps a little less delicate, in coming to the desired point. 'Mary,' he said, 'what is the name of that gentleman whom—whom you met out of doors you know?'

'Albert Fitzallen,' said Mary, hesitating very much as she pronounced the name, but nevertheless rather proud of the sound.

'And you are—fond of him?' asked Graham.

Poor girl! What was she to say? 'No; I'm not very fond of him.'

'Are you not? Then why did you consent to that secret meeting?'

'Oh, Mr. Graham—I didn't mean it; indeed I didn't. And I didn't tell him to write to me, nor yet to come looking after me. Upon my word I didn't. But then I thought when he sent me that letter that he didn't know;—about you I mean; and so I thought