“Mother,” said John, with tears in his eyes, turning to her, “it is like you to take my part.” “But he must have a very strong reason,” she went on, without heeding him, addressing her husband, “to be able to make up his mind to disappoint us so. Don’t be hard upon our poor boy. If you were to argue with him, and explain things--I am sure my John did not mean any harm. Oh, consider, John!--Fanshawe, that you were born in--how could you bear to see it go to others? And the poor people that know you so well---- Dr Mitford, when all this is over, and--strangers gone, and we are quiet again, you will take the boy with you, and go over everything and explain----” “The fact is,” said the Doctor, suddenly going to the side table and selecting his candle, “that I have no time to waste on such nonsense. You can have what books you want out of my library, and I hope your own sense and reflection will carry the day. Not a word more. You are excited, I hope, and that is the cause of this exhibition. No; of course I don’t accept what you have said. Speak to your mother--that is the best thing you can do. I have got my paper to finish, so good-night.” John stood aghast, and watched his father go out at the door, impatient and contemptuous of the explanation it had cost him so much to make. And when he turned to his mother, expecting her sympathy, she was standing by him transformed, with a gleam of fire in her eyes such as he had never seen there; a flush on her face, and her hand held up with indignant, almost threatening, vehemence. “How could you do it?” she cried--“how could you have the heart to do it? To us that have had no thought but for you! Look what sacrifices we have made all your life that you should have everything. Look how your father has worked at his papers--and all that we have done to secure your prosperity. And for the sake of a silly girl you had never seen a month ago! Oh, God forgive me! what shall I do?”