Then Doris, stung beyond endurance and driven to bay, made answer, confronting Mrs. Cameron proudly, with her little head held high: "You may keep your son. I will never marry him. He is nothing to me now--_nothing_." "I can tell him that?" "Tell him," cried Doris passionately, "tell him that I would not marry the son of such a mother for any consideration in the world! Tell him that I would _rather die_." She felt at that moment as if she would, for the woman’s cruel words had dragged her heart far from its moorings. The next moment Mrs. Cameron was alone, standing in the middle of the room, where she had so brow-beaten and insulted the innocent daughter of that unhappy house, listening to Doris’s retreating footsteps on the stairs and in the hall, and then the gentle closing of the outer door. *CHAPTER V.* *BERNARD SEARCHES FOR DORIS.* Life is so sad a thing, its measure Brims over full with human tears; A blighted hope, a buried treasure, Infinite pain, delusive pleasure, Make sorrowful our years. * * * * * Heaven is so near, oh friend, ’tis yonder, God’s word doth clear the uncertain way; His hand will bear thee, lest thou wander, His Spirit teach thee thoughts to ponder Till thou hast found the day. LOLA MARSHALL DEANE. Doris had gone. She had promised never to marry Bernard. The young people were parted for ever. Mrs. Cameron, though poor, had her son, her dear, if penniless, son all to herself. By a vigorous onslaught she had defeated and driven away the enemy, utterly routed and confounded. It was a moment of triumph for her, and yet she felt anything but triumphant; and it was with a cross and gloomy countenance that she proceeded downstairs in search of her son, whom she found at last closeted with Mr. Hamilton in the study. "How is Doris?" asked Bernard, rising as his mother entered, and offering her a chair. Mrs. Cameron sat down heavily, a little disconcerted by this interrogation. "What does that matter?" she snapped. "The question is how are we, the wronged, defrauded, robbed?" Her son looked at her impatiently. "After all, it is worse for Doris," he said, with great feeling. "Worse?" ejaculated his mother. "Worse?" echoed Mr. Hamilton. He was a long, lean man, remarkable for his habitual silence and great learning. "Yes, ten thousand times worse!" cried Bernard. "We have lost only our money, but she has lost her parents, her home, her money, and everything--that is, almost everything," correcting himself, as a smile flitted across his face, "at one stroke." "Bernard is right--and the poor girl has the disgrace to bear as well," interjected Mr. Hamilton. "Humph!" Mrs. Cameron tossed her head. "The Andersons deserve all that they have got," she was beginning, when Bernard stopped her hastily.