She sat dumb now, with a vague fear about the future of her lover; for herself she had no fear.

“Some one must be sent to Philadelphia, to remain there probably for his lifetime.  Do not drive me to send George Brand.”

“Papa!” It was a cry of appeal; but he paid no heed.  This matter he was determined to settle at once.

“Understand, this idle notion must be dropped; otherwise George Brand goes to the States forthwith, and remains there.  Fortunately, I don’t suppose the matter has gone far enough to cause either of you any deep misery.  This is not what one would call a madly impassioned letter.”

She scarcely perceived the sneer; some great calamity had befallen her, of which she as yet scarcely knew the extent; she sat mute and bewildered—­too bewildered to ask why all this thing should be.

“That may not seem much to you,” he said, in the same cold, implacable way.  “But banishment for life from his native country, his home, his friends, is something to an Englishman.  And if we are likely to lose his work in this country through a piece of sentimental folly, we shall take care not to lose it in America.”

She rose.

“Is that all, papa?”

She seemed too stunned to say any more.

He rose also, and took her hand.

“It is better to have a clear understanding, Natalie.  Some might say that I object to your marrying because you are a help to me, and your going away would leave the house empty.  Perhaps you may have some kind friend put that notion into your head.  But that is not the reason why I speak firmly to you, why I show you you must dismiss this fancy of the moment—­if you have entertained it as well as he—­as impossible.  I have larger interests at stake; I am bound to sacrifice every personal feeling to my duty.  And I have shown you what would be the certain result of such a marriage; therefore, I say, such a marriage is not to be thought of.  Come, now, Natalie, you claim to be a woman:  be a woman!  Something higher is wanted from you.  What would all our friends think of you if you were to sink into a position like that—­the house-keeper of a country squire?”

She said nothing; but she went away to her own room and sat down, her face pale, her heart like lead.  And all her thought was of this possible doom hanging over him if he persisted; and she guessed, knowing something of him, whether he was likely to be dissuaded by a threat.

Then, for a second or so, a wild despairing fancy crossed her mind, and her fingers tightened, and the proud mouth grew firm.  If it was through her that this penalty of banishment overtook him, why should she not do as others had done?

But no—­that was impossible.  She had not the courage to make such an offer.  She could only sit and think; and the picture before her imagination was that of her lover sailing away from his native land.  She saw the ship getting farther and farther away from English shores, until it disappeared altogether in a mist of rain—­and tears.