“I will bear it,” she answered. “And it will not last. And see, I am not afraid now—or only a little! I shall think of you, and it will be nothing.” Oh, but the birds were singing now and the brook was sparkling as it rippled over the shallows towards the deep pool. Presently, “When will you tell him?” she asked; and she asked it, with scarce a quaver in her voice. “As soon as I can. The sooner the better. This is Saturday. I will see him on Monday morning.” “But isn’t that—market-day?” faintly. “Can you get away?” “Does anything matter beside this?” he replied. “The sooner, dear, the tooth is pulled, the better. There is only, one thing I fear.” “I think you fear nothing,” she rejoined, gazing at him with admiring eyes. “But what is it?” “That someone should be before us. That someone should tell him before I do. And he should think us what we are not, Jos—cowards.” “I see,” she answered thoughtfully. “Yes,” with a sigh. “Then, on Monday. I shall sleep the better when it is over, even if I sleep in disgrace.” “I know,” he said; and he saw with a pang that her color ebbed. But her eyes still met his and were brave, and she smiled to reassure him. “I will not mind what comes,” she whispered, “if only we are not parted.” “We shall not be parted for ever,” he assured her. “If we are true to one another, not even your father can part us—in the end.” CHAPTER XI Josina had put a brave face on the matter, but when she came down to breakfast on the Monday, the girl was almost sick with apprehension. Her hands were cold, and as she sat at table she could not raise her eyes from her plate. The habit of years is not to be overcome in an hour, and that which the girl had to face was beyond doubt formidable. She had passed out of childhood, but in that house she was still a child. She was expected to be silent, to efface herself before her elders, to have no views but their views, and no wishes that went beyond theirs. Her daily life was laid out for her, and she must conform or she would be called to heel. On love and marriage she must have no mind of her own, but must think as her father permitted. If he chose she would be her cousin’s wife, if he did not choose the two would be parted. She could guess how he would treat her if she resisted his will, or even his whim, in that matter. And now she must resist his will in a far worse case. Arthur was her cousin. But Clement? She was not supposed even to know him. Yet she must own him, she must avow her love for him, she must confess to secret meetings with him and stolen interviews. She must be prepared for looks of horror, for uplifted hands and scandalized faces, and to hear shameful things said of him; to hear him spoken of as an upstart, belonging to a class beneath her, a person with whom she ought never to have come in contact, one whom her father would not think of admitting to his table!