The mother glanced at her son. In spite of his utmost efforts he could not conceal his agitation, yet he did manage to say-- "I have seen nothing of Mr. Armstrong's family for weeks, father." "No, Henry, I daresay not," said his mother, quickly, "you are studying too closely to have time to spare for visiting. Besides, the loss of one little pupil is not a matter of great importance to us." After a glance at Henry's pale face, Kate Marston took the first opportunity of turning the subject, and though by so doing she enabled her cousin to recover himself and join in the conversation, he very soon left the tea-table. Mrs. Halford heard the door of his little study close on her son, but that did not deter her from her purpose. As soon as the tea was removed she rose and left the room. Henry Halford, after leaving the tea-table and locking the door of his study, was for a few moments unable to touch a book. Resting his head on his hands, he gave himself up to reflection. He had made a venture and failed; and deeply as he felt the mortification caused by Mr. Armstrong's letter, yet in his cooler moments he could clearly see that, in a worldly point of view, his proposal would appear an act of presumption. He was still sitting in listless idleness, indulging in these painful thoughts, when a knock at the door startled him, and he impatiently exclaimed-- "Who is there?" "I, your mother, Henry. I want to speak to you." Without a moment's delay the lock was drawn back, and mother and son stood together in the room. Mrs. Halford closed the door gently and locked it, and Henry, placing a chair near the table for his mother, seated himself and looked inquiringly at her. "Mother," he exclaimed, suddenly, "you have guessed my secret." "I know there must be something on your mind," she replied. "Close study has never before made you listless and unhappy." "I fly to books to drown thought, they are my only relief." "Would it not relieve you to confide in your mother, Henry?" There was a pause. "You used to tell me all your troubles when you were a child, and why not now?" He raised his head, and the words burst forth impulsively-- "Mother, if I had told you weeks ago, instead of acting on impulse as I always do, I might have spared myself bitter mortification." "In what way, my son? Explain yourself." "You know I met Miss Armstrong at Oxford, mother, and on the evening before she left I said something to her under an impulse I could not resist, and now I regret it." "On what account?" "Because I have written to ask her father's consent to make her my wife, and he has refused me. Don't tell me I am a fool," he added, seeing her about to speak, "I know it now. What have I to offer as an equivalent to a young lady with such superior attractions and accomplishments as Mary Armstrong, setting aside the large fortune which her father can give her?" "Does he write kindly?" asked the mother, whose heart ached for her son.