“No, no, there is no question of generosity. Her father was my friend, and I was under some obligation to him. And then the girl was my wife’s _protégée_; and, finally, I can very well afford it. I am almost a childless man, Theodore. My grandson will be rich enough when I am gone, rich enough to be sure of a peerage, I hope, so that there may be a Baron Cheriton when I am in the dust.” “You are very good. I believe this girl has a great deal of pride—the pride of a woman who has drunk the cup of shame, and she may set herself against being your pensioner; but if the matter can be arranged as you wish she may yet see happier days. I think the first thing to be done is to reconcile mother and daughter. Mrs. Porter ought to go up to London——” “To see Miss Newton’s _protégée_? On no account. I tell you Mrs. Porter is a woman of strange temper—God knows how bitterly she might upbraid her daughter. And if the girl is proud, as you say she is, the mother’s reproaches would goad her to refuse any help from me or my wife. No, Theodore, the longer we keep mother and daughter apart, the better for Mercy’s chances of happiness.” “But if this young woman should refuse to confess her identity with Mercy Porter it will be impossible to benefit her.” “That difficulty may be easily overcome. You can take my wife to see her. She was always fond of my wife.” “And you will leave the mother out of the question. That seems rather hard upon her.” “I tell you, Theodore, it is better to leave the mother out of the question. She never acted a mother’s part to Mercy—there was never any real motherly love—at least that was Lady Cheriton’s opinion of the woman, and she had ample opportunity for judging, which, of course, I had not. If you want to help the daughter, keep the mother aloof from her.” “I dare say you are right, and I shall of course obey you implicitly,” said Theodore, inwardly reluctant. He had an exalted idea of maternal love, its obligations and privileges, and it seemed to him a hard thing to come between a penitent daughter and a mother whose heart ought to be full of pity and pardon. Yet he remembered his brief interview with Mrs. Porter, and he could but own to himself that this might be an exceptional case. CHAPTER XXV. “And from that time to this I am alone, And I shall be alone until I die.” Theodore and his friend strolled across the Park on Saturday afternoon in the direction of the west gate, Cuthbert Ramsay intent upon carrying out his intention of introducing himself to Mrs. Porter, and Theodore submitting meekly to be led as it were into the lion’s den. “You have no idea what hard stuff this woman is made of,” he said; and then he told Ramsay what Lord Cheriton had said to him about Mrs. Porter on the previous evening, and how the daughter’s life was to be made happy, if possible, without reference to the mother.