His mother’s attitude changed slightly, although her face was unaltered. She seemed to hold her breath to listen, her whole inner being to quicken into intensity of interest. March, stretched luxuriously upon the rug, in his usual post-prandial attitude, felt her sigh. “Do I tire you, mother, dear?” he asked. “Never, my boy!” Nor ever would, although within the hour and with a throe that tested her reserves of fortitude, she had surrendered the first place in his heart. The blow was unexpected. The orchard paintings and her children’s interest in them had seemed entirely professional to her. March had sketched dozens of girls, and fallen in love with none of them. With all his warmth of heart and ready sensibilities, he was not susceptible to feminine charms. As a boy, he became enamored of art too early to have other flames. Perhaps, with fatuity common to mothers, she reasoned that with such a home as his he was not likely to be tempted by visions of domestic bliss under a vine and fig tree yet to be planted. It is a grievous problem to the maternal intellect why men who have the best mothers and sisters living and eager to spoil them with much serving, should be the earliest to marry out of certainty into hazardous uncertainty. When the judge had gone to a political meeting, and May to entertain visitors in the drawing room, Mrs. Gilchrist divined the purport of the impending communication. Her fair hand grew clammy in toying with the short chestnut curls; in the silence through which she could hear the tinkle of the fountain on the lawn, she wet her dry lips that they might not be unready with loving rejoinder to what her idol was preparing to say. She knew March too well to expect conventional preamble. He was always direct and genuine. She did not start when he spoke at length. “Mamma, darling.” “Yes, my son.” “It has come to me at last, and in earnest.” “I surmised as much.” It was plain to see where he got his dislike of circuitous methods. “Is it Mrs. Wayt’s sister?” “It is Hetty Alling. She is a true, noble woman. I shall try to win her love. Should I succeed, you will love her for my sake, will you not?” “You know that I will. But this is sudden. You have known her less than a fortnight. And, dear, it is out of the fullness of my love that I speak—I am afraid that the family is a peculiar one. Be prudent, my son. You are young, and life is long. I cannot bear that you should make a mistake here. Should this young girl be all that you think—even all that I hope to find in her—it is best not to force her decision. Give her time to study you. Take time, and make opportunities to study _her_. I ask it because you bear the names of two honorable men—your father and mine—and because it would break your mother’s heart to see her only boy unhappy.” He drew her hand to his lips—the high-bred hand that would always be beautiful—and held it there for a moment. She had his pledge.