“But, my dear child,” began the curate.
“Child! Yes; that’s how you treat me—like a child. You check me in every way. I suppose you’ll want to make me a nun, and keep me shut up always in this dreary hole. You check me in everything, and Mary helps you.”
Mary looked up at her brother now, for he had slowly risen from his seat, and she knew the meaning of the stern aspect of his countenance.
“I had hoped, Leo,” he said, “that you would have accepted my decision about that to which you have thought it wise to allude.”
“I am driven to it,” cried the girl passionately.
“No: I try to lead,” said the curate, “as a father might lead. I shall be sorry when the time comes for you to quit our pleasant old home, but if a good man and true comes and says, ‘I love your sister; give her me to wife’—”
“If you cannot speak plain English, pray hold your tongue,” cried Leo scornfully.
“I should hold out my hands to him, and greet him as a new brother, Leo,” said the curate solemnly; “but when I find that my young, innocent sister is being made the toy of a worthless, degraded—”
“How dare you?” cried Leo, flashing out in her rage, while Mary went to her side, and laid her hand upon the trembling arm half raised.
“I dare,” said the curate gravely, “because I have right upon my side. I think—and Mary joins me in so thinking—”