Nearly a year had passed since she made the discovery that her father had refused one offer for her, and she had refused another. More than once since then had the hand of the accomplished daughter of Mr. Armstrong been sought by men of wealth and position, but while it pained Mary to refuse them, she still held firm to her purpose. Her father's displeasure was at times very hard to bear, but her patient and gentle endurance blunted the edge of his wrath, and often silenced him for very shame. "You expect to induce me to give way at last, I suppose," he said one day, angrily, "but I never will consent to your marrying that parson fellow; you will be of age in a few months, I know, and then may do as you like, but you will find your name erased from my will if you do." "Father, I will never marry without your consent, I have told you so often, and you cannot mistrust my word," was the gentle but firmly uttered reply, which silenced the angry father. With all these excitements and anxieties, we cannot wonder that the nine or ten months which have passed away since she stood at the window in Park Lane, have changed her appearance. Mary Armstrong, however, has lost nothing by this change. The face, though slightly thinner, still retains its delicate oval. The eyes are as large and bright, and the hair as glossy and luxuriant as ever. The rich colour on her check is softened down to the bloom of a peach, and the figure, though more fully developed, is still slender and graceful in every movement. Mary Armstrong was happy in having a mother as her confidential friend; she was not likely to "Let concealment like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek;" and she possessed too much good sense to allow herself to become the victim of disappointed affection. She knew that the best remedy against such a disease was active employment of mind and body--consequently her books, her music, her studies were diligently followed, as well as more active domestic duties. No day passed without a quick walk alone or a quieter one with her mother. The books she read were principally those requiring deep thought, and the study of languages was varied by scientific subjects. Poetry for a time she set aside, it too often touched upon a tender string, which she felt must not be allowed to vibrate, even her favourite Milton lay unnoticed on the shelf, its pages awoke memories too painful to be encouraged. Sometimes she would bring out her "Algebra" or "Euclid," and induce her father to work a few sums or problems with her during the evening. There was a sad gratification when after one of these occasions, her father closed the book, and as she rose and wished him good night, he drew her towards him, and said-- "Ah, if my daughter would only be guided by me in other matters, as she has been in her studies, I should have nothing left to wish for."