“I am my daughter's friend, but not your enemy; it is you who are too inexperienced to know how delicate, how difficult, my duties are. It is only since last night I see my way clear; and, look, I come at once to you with friendly intentions. Suppose I were as impetuous as you are? I should, perhaps, be calling you ungrateful.” He retorted bitterly. “Give me something to be grateful for, and you shall see whether that baseness is in my nature.” “I have a great mind to put you to the proof,” said she archly. “Let us walk down this lane; then you can be as unjust to me _as you think proper,_ without attracting public attention.” In the lane she told him quietly she knew the nature of his father's objections to the alliance he had so much at heart, and they were objections which her husband, on his return, would remove. On this he changed his tone a little, and implored her piteously not to deceive him. “I will not,” said she, “upon my honour. If you are as constant as my daughter is in her esteem for you--notwithstanding her threadbare gaiety worn over loyal regret, and to check a parcel of idle ladies' tongues--you have nothing to fear from me, and everything to expect. Come, _Alfred_--may I take that liberty with you?--let us understand one another. We only want that to be friends.” This was hard to resist and at his age. His lip trembled, he hesitated, but at last gave her his hand. She walked two hours with him, and laid herself out to enlighten, soothe, and comfort his sore heart His hopes and happiness revived under her magic, as Julia's had. In the midst of it all, the wise woman quietly made terms. He was not to come to the house but on her invitation, unless indeed he had news of the _Agra_ to communicate; but he might write once a week to her, and enclose a few lines to Julia. On this concession he proceeded to mumble her white wrist, and call her his best, dearest, loveliest friend; his mother. “Oh, remember,” said he, with a relic of distrust, “you are the only mother I can ever hope to have.” That touched her. Hitherto, he had been to her but a thing her daughter loved. Her eyes filled. “My poor, warm-hearted, motherless boy,” she said, “pray for my husband's safe return. For on that your happiness depends, and hers, and mine.” So now two more bright eyes looked longingly seaward for the _Agra_ homeward bound. CHAPTER VII