'We have not quarrelled. That is to say, I have not quarrelled with him. If he quarrels with me, I cannot help it.' 'It must be helped,' said Marie, as she placed before him a mess of eggs which she had cooked for him with her own hands. 'I would sooner die than see anything wrong between you two.' Then there was a pause. 'Is it about me, George?' she asked boldly. 'Father thinks that I love you:--so I do.' Marie paused for a few minutes before she said anything farther. She was standing very near to George, who was eating his breakfast heartily in spite of the interesting nature of the conversation. As she filled his cup a second time, she spoke again. 'I will never do anything, George, if I can help it, to displease my uncle.' 'But why should it displease him? He wants to have his own way in everything.' 'Of course he does.' 'He has told me to go;--and I'll go. I've worked for him as no other man would work, and have never said a word about a share in the business;--and never would.' 'Is it not all for yourself, George?' 'And why shouldn't you and I be married if we like it?' 'I will never like it,' said she solemnly, 'if uncle dislikes it.' 'Very well,' said George. 'There is the horse ready, and now I'm off.' So he went, starting just as the day was dawning, and no one saw him on that morning except Marie Bromar. As soon as he was gone she went up to her little room, and sat herself down on her bedside. She knew that she loved him, and had been told that she was beloved. She knew that she could not lose him without suffering terribly; but now she almost feared that it would be necessary that she should lose him. His manner had not been tender to her. He had indeed said that he loved her, but there had been nothing of the tenderness of love in his mode of saying so;--and then he had said no word of persistency in the teeth of his father's objection. She had declared--thoroughly purposing that her declaration should be true--that she would never become his wife in opposition to her uncle's wishes; but he, had he been in earnest, might have said something of his readiness to attempt at least to overcome his father's objection. But he had said not a word, and Marie, as she sat upon her bed, made up her mind that it must be all over. But she made up her mind also that she would entertain no feeling of anger against her uncle. She owed him everything, so she thought--making no account, as George had done, of labour given in return. She was only a girl, and what was her labour? For a while she resolved that she would give a spoken assurance to her uncle that he need fear nothing from her. It was natural enough to her that her uncle should desire a better marriage for his son. But after a while she reflected that any speech from her on such a subject would be difficult, and that it would be better that she should hold her tongue. So she held her tongue, and thought of George, and