“For yourself, you would rather stay?” said Mary. “It’s my home,” he said, “and that’s the house I was born in.” “Then”—Mary turned clearly to her parents, “I really don’t see how you can make the conditions, papa. He has his own rights, and if Louisa wants to marry him——” “Louisa, Louisa!” cried the father impatiently. “I cannot understand why Louisa should not behave in the normal way. I cannot see why she should only think of herself, and leave her family out of count. The thing is enough in itself, and she ought to try to ameliorate it as much as possible. And if——” “But I love the man, papa,” said Louisa. “And I hope you love your parents, and I hope you want to spare them as much of the—the loss of prestige, as possible.” “We _can_ go away to live,” said Louisa, her face breaking to tears. At last she was really hurt. “Oh, yes, easily,” Durant replied hastily, pale, distressed. There was dead silence in the room. “I think it would really be better,” murmured the vicar, mollified. “Very likely it would,” said the rough-voiced invalid. “Though I think we ought to apologize for asking such a thing,” said Mary haughtily. “No,” said Durant. “It will be best all round.” He was glad there was no more bother. “And shall we put up the banns here or go to the registrar?” he asked clearly, like a challenge. “We will go to the registrar,” replied Louisa decidedly. Again there was a dead silence in the room. “Well, if you will have your own way, you must go your own way,” said the mother emphatically. All the time Mr Massy had sat obscure and unnoticed in a corner of the room. At this juncture he got up, saying: “There is baby, Mary.” Mary rose and went out of the room, stately; her little husband padded after her. Durant watched the fragile, small man go, wondering. “And where,” asked the vicar, almost genial, “do you think you will go when you are married?” Durant started. “I was thinking of emigrating,” he said. “To Canada? or where?” “I think to Canada.” “Yes, that would be very good.” Again there was a pause. “We shan’t see much of you then, as a son-in-law,” said the mother, roughly but amicably. “Not much,” he said. Then he took his leave. Louisa went with him to the gate. She stood before him in distress. “You won’t mind them, will you?” she said humbly. “I don’t mind them, if they don’t mind me!” he said. Then he stooped and kissed her. “Let us be married soon,” she murmured, in tears. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go tomorrow to Barford.” A Fragment of Stained Glass