Mr. Bartley met her at the gate, “Mary,” said he, gravely, “who was that I saw with you just now?”

“Cousin Walter.”

“I feared so.  You are too much with him.”

Mary turned red and white by turns, but said nothing.

Bartley went on:  “You are a good child, and I have always trusted you.  I am sure you mean no harm.  But you must be more discreet.  I have just heard that you and that young man are looked upon as engaged lovers.  They say it is all over the village.  Of course a father is the last to hear these things.  Does Mrs. Easton know of this?”

“Oh yes, papa, and approves it.”

“Stupid old woman!  She ought to be ashamed of herself.”

“Oh, papa!” said Mary, in deep distress; “why, what objection can there be to Cousin Walter?”

“None whatever as a cousin, but every objection to intimacy.  Does he court you?”

“I don’t know, papa.  I suppose he does.”

“Does he seek your love?”

“He does not say so exactly.”

“Come, Mary, you have never deceived me.  Does he love you?”

“I am afraid he does; and if you reject him he will be very unhappy.  And so shall I.”

“I am truly sorry to hear it, Mary, for there are reasons why I can not consent to an engagement between him and you.”

“What reasons, papa?”

“It would not be proper to disclose my reasons; but I hope, Mary, that it will be enough to say that Colonel Clifford has other views for his son, and I have other views for my daughter.  Do you think a blessing will attend you or him if you defy both fathers?”

“No, no,” said poor Mary.  “We have been hasty and very foolish.  But, oh, papa, have you not seen from the first?  Oh, why did you not warn me in time?  Then I could have obeyed you easily.  Now it will cost me the happiness of my life.  We are very unfortunate.  Poor Walter!  He left me so full of hope.  What shall I do? what shall I do?”

It was Mary Bartley’s first grief.  She thought all chance of happiness was gone forever, and she wept bitterly for Walter and herself.

Bartley was not unmoved, but he could not change his nature.  The sum he had obtained by a crime was dearer to him than all his more honest gains.  He was kind on the surface, but hard as marble.

“Go to your room, my child,” said he, “and try and compose yourself.  I am not angry with you.  I ought to have watched you.  But you are so young, and I trusted to that woman.”

Mary retired, sobbing, and he sent for Mrs. Easton.

“Mrs. Easton,” said he, “for the first time in all these years I have a fault to find with you.”

“What is that, sir, if you please?”

“Young Clifford has been courting that child, and you have encouraged it.”

“Nay, sir,” said the woman, “I have not done that.  She never spoke to me, nor I to her.”

“Well, then, you never interfered.”