"I plead to you. I pray to you, because I love him so. In my heart I am as proud as you, may be prouder; but I lay my pride under my feet, I humble myself. I pray of you to take pity upon your son, and on myself. I love him so well, he loves me too. Life would hold nothing for either of us if we are parted. For the sake of all the love you have ever felt for husband, father, brother, son--for God's sake, I pray you to take pity on us, and do not separate us." The passionate torrent of words stopped for one minute; tears streamed down the beautiful upraised face; then she went on: "I would do all that you wished me; I would try hard to improve myself; I would work so hard and work so well that no one would even guess, ever so faintly, that I belonged to a different class. I would be the most devoted of daughters to you; I would live only to please you, I----" The countess held up her hand with a warning gesture. "Hush!" she said; "you are talking the most arrant nonsense." But Leone this time would not be controlled. All the passion and love within her seemed to find vent in the next few words. They might have burned the lips which uttered them, but they fell unheeded on the ears of the proudest woman in England. "Hush," she said again. "Neither pleading nor prayers will avail with me. I speak the simple truth when I say that I would rather see my son dead than see you his wife." CHAPTER XVIII. A WRONGED WOMAN'S THREAT. For some five minutes there was silence, and the two who were to be mortal enemies looked at each other. Leone knew then that all prayers, all pleadings were in vain; that they were worse than useless; but in the heart of the foe there was no relenting, no pity, nothing but scorn and hate. She had poured out the whole of her soul in that supplication for pity, and now she knew that she had humbled herself in vain; the mother's cruel words smote her with a pain like that of a sharp sword. She was silent until the first smart of that pain was over, then she said, gently: "Why do you say anything so cruel?--why do you hate me?" "Hate you?" replied my lady, "how can you be so mistaken? It is not you I hate, but your class--the class to which you belong--although the word hate is much too strong. I simply hold them in sovereign contempt." "I cannot help my class," she said, briefly. "Certainly not; but it is my place to see that my son takes no wife from it. To you, yourself, I can have no dislike; personally I rather like you; you have a pleasant face, and I should take you to be clever. But you have not even one of the qualifications needful--absolutely necessary for the lady whom my son calls wife." "Yet he chose me," she said, simply.