“Yes, Bessy. And your mother agrees with me that it had better be given to you. It is this,—that if you will send him word to come again, he will be here by Twelfth-night. He came before on my invitation, but if he returns it must be on yours.” “Oh, papa, I cannot.” “I do not say that you can, but think of it calmly before you altogether refuse. You shall give me your answer on New Year’s morning.” “Mamma knows that it would be impossible,” said Bessy. “Not impossible, dearest.” “In such a matter you should do what you believe to be right,” said her father. “If I were to ask him here again, it would be telling him that I would—” “Exactly, Bessy. It would be telling him that you would be his wife. He would understand it so, and so would your mother and I. It must be so understood altogether.” “But, papa, when we were at Liverpool—” “I have told him everything, dearest,” said Mrs. Garrow. “I think I understand the whole,” said the Major; “and in such a matter as this I will not give you counsel on either side. But you must remember that in making up your mind, you must think of him as well as of yourself. If you do not love him;—if you feel that as his wife you should not love him, there is not another word to be said. I need not explain to my daughter that under such circumstances she would be wrong to encourage the visits of a suitor. But your mother says you do love him.” “I will not ask you. But if you do;—if you have so told him, and allowed him to build up an idea of his life-happiness on such telling, you will, I think, sin greatly against him by allowing a false feminine pride to mar his happiness. When once a girl has confessed to a man that she loves him, the confession and the love together put upon her the burden of a duty towards him, which she cannot with impunity throw aside.” Then he kissed her, and bidding her give him a reply on the morning of the new year, left her with her mother. She had four days for consideration, and they went past her by no means easily. Could she have been alone with her mother, the struggle would not have been so painful; but there was the necessity that she should talk to Isabella Holmes, and the necessity also that she should not neglect the Coverdales. Nothing could have been kinder than Bella. She did not speak on the subject till the morning of the last day, and then only in a very few words. “Bessy,” she said, “as you are great, be merciful.” “But I am not great, and it would not be mercy.” “As to that,” said Bella, “he has surely a right to his own opinion.” On that evening she was sitting alone in her room when her mother came to her, and her eyes were red with weeping. Pen and paper were before her, as though she were resolved to write, but hitherto no word had been written. “Well, Bessy,” said her mother, sitting down close beside her; “is the deed done?” “What deed, mamma? Who says that I am to do it?”