“Ah no, not that; she must have trouble enough without that. But it would have its advantages, for then I should see the children. I should like very much to see the children.” “You are very thorough. Do you want to catechise them about their uncle!” “Precisely. Their uncle tells me he has charge of their education, that he saves their mother the expense of school-bills. I should like to ask them a few questions in the commoner branches.” “He certainly has not the cut of a schoolmaster!” Mrs. Almond said to herself a short time afterwards, as she saw Morris Townsend in a corner bending over her niece, who was seated. And there was, indeed, nothing in the young man’s discourse at this moment that savoured of the pedagogue. “Will you meet me somewhere to-morrow or next day?” he said, in a low tone, to Catherine. “Meet you?” she asked, lifting her frightened eyes. “I have something particular to say to you—very particular.” “Can’t you come to the house? Can’t you say it there?” Townsend shook his head gloomily. “I can’t enter your doors again!” “Oh, Mr. Townsend!” murmured Catherine. She trembled as she wondered what had happened, whether her father had forbidden it. “I can’t in self-respect,” said the young man. “Your father has insulted me.” “Insulted you!” “He has taunted me with my poverty.” “Oh, you are mistaken—you misunderstood him!” Catherine spoke with energy, getting up from her chair. “Perhaps I am too proud—too sensitive. But would you have me otherwise?” he asked tenderly. “Where my father is concerned, you must not be sure. He is full of goodness,” said Catherine. “He laughed at me for having no position! I took it quietly; but only because he belongs to you.” “I don’t know,” said Catherine; “I don’t know what he thinks. I am sure he means to be kind. You must not be too proud.” “I will be proud only of you,” Morris answered. “Will you meet me in the Square in the afternoon?” A great blush on Catherine’s part had been the answer to the declaration I have just quoted. She turned away, heedless of his question. “Will you meet me?” he repeated. “It is very quiet there; no one need see us—toward dusk?” “It is you who are unkind, it is you who laugh, when you say such things as that.” “My dear girl!” the young man murmured. “You know how little there is in me to be proud of. I am ugly and stupid.” Morris greeted this remark with an ardent murmur, in which she recognised nothing articulate but an assurance that she was his own dearest. But she went on. “I am not even—I am not even—” And she paused a moment. “You are not what?” “I am not even brave.” “Ah, then, if you are afraid, what shall we do?” She hesitated a while; then at last—“You must come to the house,” she said; “I am not afraid of that.” “I would rather it were in the Square,” the young man urged. “You know how empty it is, often. No one will see us.” “I don’t care who sees us! But leave me now.”