‘My darling, my daughter!’ said Mrs. Scudder, coming and taking her in her arms.
‘Oh, mother, mother!’ she said, sobbing distressfully, ‘let me cry, just for a little,—oh, mother, mother, mother!’
What was there hidden under that despairing wail?—it was the parting of the last strand of the cord of youthful hope.
Mrs. Scudder soothed and caressed her daughter, but maintained still in her breast a tender pertinacity of purpose, such as mothers will, who think they are conducting a child through some natural sorrow into a happier state.
Mary was not one either to yield long to emotion of any kind. Her rigid education had taught her to look upon all such outbursts as a species of weakness, and she struggled for composure, and soon seemed entirely calm.
‘If he really loves me, mother, it would give him great pain if I refuse,’ said Mary, thoughtfully.
‘Certainly it would; and, Mary, you have allowed him to act as a very near friend for a long time; and it is quite natural that he should have hopes that you loved him.’
‘I do love him, mother,—better than anybody in the world except you. Do you think that will do?’
‘Will do?’ said her mother; ‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Why, is that loving enough to marry? I shall love him more perhaps after, shall I, mother?’