“Mother,” John’s voice trembled, “you are my mother, and I love you, and I will not be angry with you, but please never speak in that way again of Miss Miller.” He paused a minute to steady his voice, and for debate with himself as to whether or not he should confide in his mother, and decided to do so. “There ought to be no secrets between us two, little mother, for whom have we but each other? And so I will at once tell you the truth. I have chosen Miss Miller to be my wife, and have asked her to accept my love. I have plenty to think of besides marrying for some years to come, but if I ever do marry, Margaret Miller will be my bride.” Mrs. Hunter’s eyes blazed with fury; but her son would not let her speak. He had seen his mother in a passion before, and for her own sake as much as his he resolved that he would not listen to her torrents of angry words. “Wait a moment, mother. All that I can be to you as a son I will be; but I am a man now, and I must be allowed to choose my own friends and, above all, my own wife.” He left her after these words, and perhaps his heart was as heavy as his mother’s. He was sorry to vex her; but he was himself vexed, too. It was too bad to bring his cousin Tom into this discussion, and to suggest that most absurd idea! There could not be a particle of truth in the suggestion that Tom cared for him, except as a cousin; of that he was absolutely certain. It was a pain, that was not without shame, that her father held a mortgage on his land, but he would never redeem it in that fashion. He knew that his uncle had obliged his mother to arrange with him instead of a stranger, and he knew, too, that she had almost exceeded the terms of his father’s will in what she did. It was well that he was in the hands of an honourable relative; but the thing was a trouble to him, for the thought of a debt was hard to bear. His case was an exceedingly common one. How to be just as well as generous is a problem given to many to solve. But what troubled John Dallington more than anything was a doubt that had crept into his mind about Margaret. He did not know what it meant, but he felt that she was not happy with him. She appeared anxious and afraid, and even his love could not melt away a certain coldness which seemed to be creeping over her. Poor Margaret was fighting a battle with herself in regard to her duty. She was uncertain as to what she ought to do. Mrs. Hunter had been more successful with Margaret than with John when she set herself to insinuate into the mind of each the suspicion of Tom Whitwell’s love for her cousin. The two friends spent much time together in London, as well as in their homes; and Margaret’s fear that the suspicion was correct grew rather than decreased.