Her own heart had begun to tremble and dilate with her new resolve; the resolve to accept the idea of Anne’s marriage, to cease her inward struggle against it, and try to be in reality what she was already pretending to be: the acquiescent, approving mother.... After all, why not? Legally, technically, there was nothing wrong, nothing socially punishable, in the case. And what was there on the higher, the more private grounds where she pretended to take her stand and deliver her judgment? Chris Fenno was a young man--she was old enough to be, if not his mother, at least his mother-in-law. What had she ever hoped or expected to be to him but a passing incident, a pleasant memory? From the first, she had pitched their relation in that key; had insisted on the difference in their ages, on her own sense of the necessary transiency of the tie, on the fact that she would not have it otherwise. Anything rather than to be the old woman clutching at an impossible prolongation of bliss--anything rather than be remembered as a burden instead of being regretted as a delight! How often had she told him that she wanted to remain with him like the memory of a flowering branch brushed by at night? “You won’t quite know if it was lilac or laburnum, or both--you’ll only know it was something vanishing and sweet.” Vanishing and sweet--that was what she had meant to be! And she had kept to her resolution till the blow fell-- Well, and was he so much to blame for its falling? She herself had been the witness of his resistance, of his loyal efforts to escape. The vehemence of Anne’s passion had thwarted him, had baffled them both; if he loved her as passionately as she loved him, was he not justified in accepting the happiness forced upon him? And how refuse it without destroying the girl’s life? “If any one is to be destroyed, oh God, don’t let it be Anne!” the mother cried. She seemed at last to have reached a clearer height, a more breathable air. Renunciation--renunciation. If she could attain to that, what real obstacle was there to her daughter’s happiness? “I would sell my soul for her--why not my memories?” she reflected. The sound of steps and voices outside had ceased. From the landing had come a “Goodbye, dearest!” in Nollie Tresselton’s voice; no doubt she had been the last visitor to leave, and Anne was now alone; perhaps alone with her betrothed. Well; to that thought also Kate Clephane must accustom herself; by and bye they would be always alone, those two, in the sense of being nearer to each other than either of them was to any one else. The mother could bear that too. Not to lose Anne--at all costs to keep her hold on the girl’s confidence and tenderness: that was all that really mattered. She would go to Anne now. She herself would ask the girl to fix the date for the wedding.