"Poor mother!" sighed the sister. "I am grateful she is spared this."
"Don't think that she doesn't know it!" cried Lydia. "If 'Liza approved, mother does, and she is glad of her child's happiness."
"Her child—yes, her child," taunted the sister. "Child! child!
Yes, and what of the child you will probably mother?"
The crimson swept painfully down the young girl's face, but she braved it out.
"Yes," she stammered, "a child, perhaps a son, a son of mine, who, poor boy, can never inherit his father's title."
"And why not, pray?" remarked her sister.
"Because the female line of lineage will be broken," explained the girl. "He should marry someone else, so that the family title could follow the family name. His father and mother have practically cast him off because of me. Don't you see? Can't you understand that I am only an untitled commoner to his people? I am only a white girl."
"Only a white girl!" repeated the sister, sarcastically. "Do you mean to tell me that you believe these wretched Indians don't want him to marry you? You, a Bestman, and an English girl? Nonsense, Lydia! You are talking utter nonsense." But the sister's voice weakened, nevertheless.
"But it's true," asserted the girl. "You don't understand the Indian nation as 'Liza did; it's perfectly true—a son of mine can claim no family title; the honor of it must leave the name of Mansion forever. Oh, his parents have completely shut him out of their lives because I am only a white girl!" and the sweet young voice trembled woefully.
"I decline to discuss this disgraceful matter with you any further," said the sister coldly. "Perhaps my good husband can bring you to your senses," and the lady left the room in a fever of indignation.