He had taken leave of his mother the evening previous to the day upon which he was to leave home. The next morning, in parting from Mrs. Georgia and Catherine, he took leave of the lady, in a tender and respectful manner, raising her hand to his lips—but he drew Kate to his bosom, and pushing back the rippling waves of chestnut hair, that concealed or shaded two-thirds of her massive forehead, he said, gravely and sweetly— “What are you going to do with all this brain while I am gone, Kate? How much longer will it lie fallow? Well! Never mind!” He kissed her freely and fondly as a near relative might, and bowing once more to Mrs. Georgia, hastened away. He paused upon the threshold of the door however, seemed to hesitate, then suddenly came back, seized the hand of Kate, and drew her out upon the porch. “Catherine,” he said, “do you remember a promise you made me once—not to marry without my consent?” “Yes, sir, I remember it.” “I hold you to that promise, Kate. I must speak plainly to you at the risk or the certainty of wounding your feelings; yours is a singular position, Catherine—a girl of humble birth, quite penniless, yet with education and accomplishments that fit her to grace a higher circle. It is not likely, Catherine, that any gentleman in this part of the country will ever become a suitor for your hand, and no one who is not a gentleman should be permitted to do so!—Therefore, Catherine, I wish you to promise me not to listen to any proposals without my consent.” “I promised you long ago, sir. I will keep that promise until you release me from it!” “That is a good girl! Now, then, once more good-bye,” and again he folded her to his bosom, and then, indeed, he was gone. Catherine turned with the intention of seeking her own room, but was instantly confronted by Mrs. Georgia Clifton, who stood before her with pallid cheek, set teeth, and gleaming eyes. She caught the wrist of the girl, and keeping a strong, vice-like grasp upon it, dragged her almost with violence into the parlor before the window, and casting herself into a chair, pulled Catherine up before her, and fixed those wild, dilated, star-like eyes upon her face. It fell blushing under the gaze. “You love that man,” she said, drawing her breath hardly, like one in a passing pain. The blush deepened upon Catherine’s cheek, but she did not reply in words. “Speak! Answer me! You love that man?” she repeated, clutching the wrist of the girl so tightly as to cause her to wince. “Madam, I am grateful to Major Clifton—he is my benefactor—he cares for me, and I am grateful to him.” “He is an arrogant man—he reminded you of your low birth.”