"We will call it Providence, then," agreed her mother, and continued: "Until the last few years, when my heart and thoughts were all occupied by your step-father's failing health, I kept up a regular correspondence with my cousin, Lady Putnam, and her letters were filled with praises of her noble son, Leland. She had a sweet little daughter also, called Amy, but her pride seemed to centre in the boy who would inherit his father's rank and wealth." She paused, sighed, then added: "Now, Geraldine, you see how I had planned your future before you were so cruelly stolen from me. And now that you have been restored to my heart, all my old ambitions for you have revived. Can you wonder that I prefer for you to marry noble Leland Putnam, whom I have known and loved ever since his childhood, rather than a stranger, who, however worthy, is poor and obscure, and could not elevate you to the position your beauty merits?" Geraldine had listened silently and earnestly. The romantic story of her childish betrothal pleased her, but it could not turn her true heart from its firm allegiance. She said, gently: "You have told me a deeply touching story, dear mamma. I grieve that my own father proved so false and unworthy, and I rejoice that I did not inherit his fickleness, for my heart is true as steel to the first object of its choice. I can never cease to love Harry Hawthorne, and as for the betrothal you speak of, it was simply a childish affair, forgotten, no doubt by all but yourself." "You are mistaken, my dear; for my cousin often mentioned it in her letters after you were lost to us, as we feared, forever. I shall write to her this very day, and tell her you are found again." "But not one word of that childish engagement, please, mamma! I will not be offered to any man!" remonstrated Geraldine, in alarm. "Certainly not, Geraldine. Of course, I know what is due to you. But if Leland revives it of himself, if he still claims you, you cannot refuse to marry him!" Geraldine felt as if she were choking. A cruel fate seemed to destine her to a loveless marriage. Oh, how could her mother be so cruel, so heartless, wrapped up in sordid ambition, reckless of a young heart's misery! Filled with fear and anger at her threatening fate, she sprang to her feet, crying, passionately: "Mamma, I do not wish to offend you, but--but--I will not be forced into a loveless marriage. I will be true to Harry, though the whole world oppose me! Why, I would rather have remained a poor salesgirl forever than have lost him, my own true love, by finding myself an heiress!" The passionate defiance was out, and the mother knew that all her ambitions were likely to be defeated by a girl's perversity. She called it perversity in her mind. She would not own that it was love--constant, faithful love, that has been the theme of poets since first they struck the sounding lyre.