That afternoon, Mrs. Ponsonby observed a tremulousneas in Mary's hand, and a willingness to keep her face turned away; and, on more minute glances, a swelling of the eyelids was detected. 'My dear,' said Mrs. Ponsonby, 'you should take a walk to-day. Pray go out with the Conways.' 'Oh no, thank you, mamma.' 'If the cousins come in from Ormersfield, I shall tell Louis to take you to look at his farm. It would be very good for you--My dear, what is it?' for Mary's ears and neck, all that she could see, were crimson. 'Oh, mamma! he has been doing it again. I did not mean to have told you--' said Mary, the strong will to be calm forcing back the tears and even the flush. 'Nay, dear child, nothing can hurt me now. You must let me share all with you to the last. What did you say to him?' 'I told him that I could not think of such things now,' said Mary, almost indignantly. 'And he?' 'He begged my pardon, and said he only did it because he thought it might be a relief to you.' 'Only; did he say 'only?' 'I am not sure. At least,' she added, with a deep sigh, 'I thought he meant only--' 'And you, my dearest, if you had not thought he meant _only_?' 'Don't ask me, mamma; I cannot think about it!' 'Mary, dearest, I do wish to understand you.' 'Is it of any use for me to ask myself?' said Mary. 'I think it is. I do not say that there might not be insuperable obstacles; but I believe we ought to know whether you are still indifferent to Louis.' 'Oh, that I never was! Nobody could be!' 'You know what I mean,' said her mother, slightly smiling. 'Mamma, I don't know what to say,' replied Mary, after a pause. 'I had thought it wrong to let my thoughts take that course; but when he spoke in his own soft, gentle voice, I felt, and I can't help it, that--he--could--comfort--me--better--than--any one.' Not hesitating, but slowly, almost inaudibly, she brought out the words; and, as the tears gushed out irrepressibly with the last, she hastened from the room, and was seen no more till she had recovered composure, and seemed to have dismissed the subject. Louis kept this second attempt a secret; he was not quite sure how he felt, and did not wish to discuss his rejection. At breakfast, he received a note from Mrs. Ponsonby, begging him to come to the Terrace at three o'clock; and the hope thus revived made him more conversational than he had been all the former day. He found that Mary was out walking, and he was at once conducted to Mrs. Ponsonby's room, where he looked exceedingly rosy and confused, till she began by holding out her hand, and saying, 'I wish to thank you.' 'I am afraid I vexed Mary,' said Louis, with more than his usual simplicity; 'but do you think there is no hope? I knew it was a bad time, but I thought it might make you more at ease on her account.' 'You meant all that was most kind.'