My father had been dead about five years, when, one afternoon, my mother came to me in my bedroom. She was in her bonnet and outdoor clothes, and I instantly noticed an agitation in her manner as she sat down beside the dressing-table and looked at me. I forget what I was about, but I recollect ceasing in it and standing up with my hands clasped, whilst I viewed her anxiously and with misgivings.
‘Marian,’ said she, with a forced smile, ‘I have come to give you a bit of news.’
‘What, mother?’
‘My hand has been asked in marriage, dear, and I have accepted.’
I felt the blood rush to my face, and then I turned cold, and, pulling a chair to me, sat down, but I did not speak.
‘Your hand has been asked in marriage?’ said I. ‘By whom, mother?’
‘By Mr. Stanford,’ she answered, lowering her voice and sinking her eyes.
‘Mr. Stanford?’ I cried. ‘The doctor?’
‘Whom else?’ she replied, looking at me again and forcing another smile.