"Poor little Maria! You come to England, and then are astonished that a girl of eighteen is not allowed to have her own way, even in a husband."
"I have heard that you took your own way in England, Madame."
"In Scotland, there was some difference, and I was twenty-three and had a fortune of my own."
"Tell me then, Madame, what I ought to do."
"I think you ought to go back to New York. You are unhappy here, and you must make your father's home unhappy. That is not fair. If you are in New York, Ernest Medway will have no difficulty in keeping his word—if he wishes to do so. If he does not keep his word, you will escape the mortification you would certainly feel in your father's house. Ask the stepmother for permission to go back; she will manage the rest."
"Had I not better wait till the twenty-ninth of November has come and gone?"
"If you are a fool, do so. If you are wise, do not give opportunity so much scope. Go at once."
This advice was carried out with all the speed possible. That very night Maria found a good time to ask her stepmother's influence, and in spite of some affected reluctances, she understood that her proposal was one that gave great and unexpected satisfaction. She felt almost that she might begin to prepare for the voyage; nor were her premonitions false. On the third evening after the request her father came to her room to grant it. He said he was "sorry she wished to leave him, but that under the circumstances it was better that she left England, at least for a year. The war is practically over," he continued, "and New York will speedily recover herself." Then he entered into some financial explanations of a very generous character, and finally, taking a small package from his pocket, said:
"Give this to your grandfather. It is a miniature of his grandson, Alexander Semple the third. He will be much delighted to see that child, for he has no other grandson. My brothers' children are only girls."
"Only girls!" The two words cut like a two-edged blade, but they were not said with any unkind intent, though he felt the unkind impression they made, and rose and went slowly toward the door. His manner was hesitating, as if he had forgotten something he wished to say, and the momentary delay gave to Maria a good thought. She followed him quickly, and while his hand was on the door laid hers upon it. "Father," she said, "stay a little while. I want to ask you to forgive me. I have so often been troublesome and self-willed, I have given you so much annoyance, I feel it now. I am sorry for it. I cannot go back to America until you forgive me. Father, will you forgive me? Indeed, I am sorry."