“Perhaps,” said he, with an ironical smile, “perhaps you have taken time by the forelock, and already promised to be his wife?”

The answer was given with the same proud composure.

“I have not.  But I have promised, if I am not his wife, never to be the wife of any other man.”

It was now that Lind began to perceive how serious this matter was.  This was no school-girl, to be frightened out of a passing fancy.  He must appeal to the reason of a woman; and the truth is, that if he had known he had this to undertake, he would not so hastily have gone into that drawing-room with the open letter in his hand.

“Sit down Natalie,” he said, quite gently.  “I want to talk to you.  I spoke hastily; I was surprised and angry.  Now let us see calmly how matters stand; I dare say no great harm has been done yet.”

She took a seat opposite him; there was not the least sign of any girlish breaking down, even when he spoke to her in this kind way.

“I have no doubt you acted quite rightly and prudently when I was away; and as for Mr. Brand, well, any one can see that you have grown to be a good-looking young woman, and of course he would like to have a good-looking young wife to show off among the country people, and to go riding to hounds with him.  Let us see what is involved in your becoming his wife, supposing that were ever seriously to be thought of.  You give up all your old sympathies and friends, your interest in the work we have on hand, and you get transferred to a Buckinghamshire country-house to take the place of the old house-keeper.  If you do not hear anything of what is going on—­of our struggles—­of your friends all over Europe—­what of that?  You will have the kitchen-garden to look after, and poultry to feed; and your neighbors will talk to you at dinner about foxes and dogs and horses and the clergyman’s charities.  It will be a healthy life, Natalie:  perhaps you will get stout and rosy, like an English matron.  But your old friends—­you will have forgotten them.”

“Never!—­never!” she said, vehemently; and, despite herself, her eyes filled with tears.

“Then we will take Mr. Brand.  The Buckinghamshire house is open again.  An Englishman’s house is his castle; there is a great deal of work in superintending it, its entertainments, its dependents.  Perhaps he has a pack of foxhounds; no doubt he is a justice of the peace, and the terror of poachers.  But in the midst of all this hunting, and giving of dinner-parties, and shooting of pheasants, do you think he has much time or thought for the future of the millions of poor wretches all over Europe who once claimed his care?  Not much!  That was in his days of irresponsible bachelorhood.  Now he is settled down—­he is a country gentleman.  The world can set itself right without him.  He is anxious about the price of wheat.”

“Ah, how you mistake him, papa!” said she, proudly.  And there was a proud light on her face too as she rose and quickly went to a small escritoire close by.  A few seconds sufficed her to write a short note, which she brought back to her father.