for coal.  That cross old thing, Colonel Clifford, had been heard to sneer at her dear father, and say unkind and disrespectful things—­that the love of money led to loss of money, and that papa might just as well dig a well and throw his money into that.  She herself was sorry he had not waited for Mr. Hope’s return before undertaking so serious a speculation.  Warmed by this preliminary, she ventured into the delicate subject, and told him the substance of what we have told the reader, only in a far more timid and suggestive way, and implored him to advise her by return of post if possible—­or why not come home?  Papa had said only yesterday, “I wish Hope was here.”  She got an answer by return of post.  It disappointed her, on the whole.  Mr. Hope realized the whole situation, though she had sketched it faintly instead of painting it boldly.  He was all sympathy, and he saw at once that he could not himself imagine a better match for her than Walter Clifford.  But then he observed that Mr. Bartley himself offered no personal objection, but wished the matter to be in abeyance until she was older, and Colonel Clifford’s objection to the connection should be removed or softened.  That might really be hoped for should Miss Clifford marry Mr. Fitzroy; and really in the mean time he (Hope) could hardly take on him to encourage her in impatience and disobedience.  He should prefer to talk to Bartley first.  With him he should take a less hesitating line, and set her happiness above everything.  In short, he wrote cautiously.  He inwardly resolved to be on the spot very soon, whether Bartley wanted him or not; but he did not tell Mary this.

Mary was disappointed.  “How kind and wise he is!” she said to Julia—­“too wise.”

Next Wednesday morning Mary Bartley rode to Mrs. Gilbert, and was received by her with courtesy, but with a warm embrace by Mrs. Easton.  After a while the latter invited her into the parlor, saying there is somebody there; but no one knows.  This, however, though hardly unexpected, set Mary’s heart beating, and when the parlor door was opened, Mrs. Easton stepped back, and Mary was alone with Walter Clifford.

Then might those who oppose an honest and tender affection have learned a lesson.  It was no longer affection only.  It was passion.  Walter was pale, agitated, eager; he kissed her hands impetuously, and drew her to his bosom.  She sobbed there; he poured inarticulate words over her, and still held her, panting, to his beating heart.  Even when the first gush of love subsided a little he could not be so reasonable as he used to be.  He was wild against his own father, hers, and every obstacle, and implored her to marry him at once by special license, and leave the old people to untie the knot if they could.

Then Mary was astonished and hurt.

“A clandestine marriage, Mr. Clifford!” said she.  “I thought you had more respect for me than to mention such a thing.”

Then he had to beg her pardon, and say the separation had driven him mad.