India never for an instant doubted her power over Mark Sutherland; nay, she never mentally even limited the _extent_ of that power. The worst she anticipated was a controversy with her betrothed. That this controversy could end in any other manner than in her own favour, she never once inquired. That his fanaticism must yield to her influence, she felt certain. But she did not like to have to exert this influence. She admired and honoured Mark Sutherland above all men—nay, there were times when she feared him above all things. And she loved him as those of her clime only love. And with all her faults, this spoiled child of fortune was too true a woman to wish to take the position and tone of a dictator to the man she so loved. Nay, she felt indignant with all concerned in thrusting upon her such inevitable, yet such repulsive, “greatness.” And now she sat trying to compose her nerves and collect her thoughts for the unavoidable interview to which she momentarily expected to be summoned. She had not much longer to wait. A servant soon entered, and, bowing, informed her that Mr. Sutherland requested the favour of an interview at her earliest convenience, and desired to know when and where she would receive him. “Where is Mr. Sutherland?” inquired the young lady. “In the library, Miss.” “Proceed thither and announce me, then.” Arrived at the library, the man opened the door, and merely saying, “Miss Sutherland, sir,” held it open until she had passed in, and then closing it, retired. And India found herself alone with Mark. He was sitting at a central library-table, leaning with his head resting upon his hand; his face was very pale, his countenance haggard, his dark hair slightly dishevelled, his manner disturbed and anxious, yet withal controlled. He arose and advanced to meet her, led her to a sofa, and placed himself beside her. Taking her hand in his own, and pressing it gently, he looked down into her face, regarding her with a grave, sweet, sad, almost solemn expression of countenance; and, after a brief pause, he said, “My dearest India, you cannot be at a loss to understand my motive for requesting this interview?” He paused, as expecting her assent, but she did not reply in any way. She did not even lift her glance from the carpet. He pressed her hand fondly, and resumed: “My love, the time has come, the opportunity is presented for us—even for _us_, my India—to put in practice some of those high examples of heroism, which in others have so often won our fervent admiration. Even _we_, my India, may”— She arrested his serious words by suddenly drawing her hand away, and hurriedly exclaiming, “I have heard something of your purpose of manumitting the people on your various plantations. But I would prefer to hear your plan of benevolence, or philanthropy, whichever it may be, from your own lips, unwarped by prejudice, and uncoloured by passion, and _with as little preface as possible_!”