But now! Now it would be different. As he drank his tea and ate his buttered scone he thought so. "It will be good-morning, Elder. How's all with you? Have you heard the news? and the like of that. It will be a different call now." And he looked at Maria happily, and began to forgive her for the calamity she had brought upon them. For it was undeniable that even in her home she had been made to feel her responsibility, although the blame had never been voiced. She understood the change, and was both happy and angry. She did not feel as if any one--grandfather, grandmother, Lord Medway, or Uncle Neil--had stood by her with the loyal faith they ought to have shown. All of them had, more or less, suspected her of imprudence and reckless disregard of their welfare. All of them had thought her capable of ruining her family for a flirtation. Even Agnes, the beginning and end of all the trouble, had been cold and indifferent, and blamed, and left her without a word. And as she did not believe herself to have done anything very wrong, the injustice of the situation filled her with angry pain and dumb reproach. Lord Medway's straightforward proposal cleared all the clouds away. It gave her a position at once that even her grandfather respected. She was no longer a selfish child, whose vanity and folly had nearly ruined her family. She was the betrothed wife of a rich and powerful nobleman, and she knew that even socially reprisals of a satisfactory kind would soon be open to her. The dejected, self-effacing manner induced by her culpable position dropped from her like a useless garment; she lifted her handsome face with confident smiles; she was going, not only to be exonerated, but to be set far above the envy and jealousy of her enemies. For Medway had asked her to go sleighing with him on the following day, and she expected that ride to atone for many small insults and offenses. Twice during the night she got up in the cruel cold to peep at the stars and the skies. She wanted a clear, sunny day, such a day as would bring out every sleigh in the fashionable world; and she got her desire. The sun rose brilliantly, and the cold had abated to just the desirable point; the roads, also, were in perfect condition for rapid sleighing, and at half-past eleven Medway entered the parlor, aglow with the frost and the rapid motion. His fine presence, his hearty laugh, his genial manners, were irresistible. He bowed over Madame's hand, and then drew Maria within his embrace. "Is she not a darling? and may I take her for an hour or two, grandmother?" he asked. And Madame felt his address to be beyond opposition. He had claimed her kinship; he had called her "grandmother," and she gave him at once the key of her heart.