"You mean that Walter is so poor, that he never should be allowed to marry."
"I don't care twopence about Walter."
"But I do, Aunt Sarah. I care more about him than all the world beside. I had to think for him."
"You did not take much time to think."
"Hardly a minute—and yet it was sufficient." Then she paused, waiting for her aunt; but it seemed that her aunt had nothing further to say. "Well," continued Mary, "if it must be so, it must. If you cannot wish me joy—"
"Dearest, you know well enough that I wish you all happiness."
"This is my happiness." It seemed to the bewildered old lady that the whole nature of the girl was altered. Mary was speaking now as might have spoken some enthusiastic young female who had at last succeeded in obtaining for herself the possession,—more or less permanent,—of a young man, after having fed her imagination on novels for the last five years; whereas Mary Lowther had hitherto, in all moods of her life, been completely opposite to such feminine ways and doings. "Very well," continued Mary; "we will say nothing more about it at present. I am greatly grieved that I have incurred your displeasure; but I cannot wish it otherwise."
"I have said nothing of displeasure."
"Walter is to be up after lunch, and I will only ask that he may not be received with black looks. If it must be visited as a sin, let it be visited on me."
"Mary, that is unkind and ungenerous."