"Mother, in this thing, I must judge for myself. My father, I know, intended that I should, else why did he leave me, untrammeled as I am?"
Mrs. Farnham started up—her pale blue eyes gleamed venomously. She stood for a moment, growing paler, and more repulsive; some evil idea evidently possessed her.
"Be careful, be careful," she said, shaking her finger at him, menacingly, "do not provoke me—don't go a step farther, or I will prove how far you are untrammeled. Another word and there will be no medium between my love and my hate."
"Mother, are you mad?"
"Mother, indeed! I have been a mother to you. I've done what few mothers would have the courage to undertake for a child, but what I have done can be taken back—don't provoke me, I tell you, again, Frederick Farnham—don't provoke your mother."
"Oh, be a mother, a true-hearted woman," cried Fred, imploringly;
"Isabel will love you; be kind to her."
Mrs. Farnham drew back, and folded her arms in an attitude she had seen Rachel assume on the stage, and which she deemed very imposing.
"Frederick Farnham, if you marry that girl I will bring you to her level—I will make a pauper of you."
Frederick smiled; the whole thing struck him as a farce badly played.
"I shall certainly marry her, if she will accept me," he said, coldly.