“Because I do not want you to waste your life; because I want you to have what rightly belongs to you—the Hamilton fortune,” she responded passionately; then she added vehemently: “Promise me one thing, before I go, and I will try to be satisfied—promise me, if you ever marry again, that Sadie Rochester shall be your wife.” He smiled bitterly. “Well, mother,” he said at last, to end the matter, “if it will ease your mind, I will promise you that much—if I ever do take to myself a wife, Sadie Rochester shall occupy that position—that is, if she should desire it. But I beg—nay, I insist, that you never broach the subject to me again. I prefer to act independently in all such matters.” Madame Winthrop’s face lighted. She felt that he had fairly committed himself at last, and she believed it would be comparatively easy for Sadie to win him now. “You will come with us to Rome?” she said eagerly. “No; I cannot. I have work to do here in Paris yet.” “What work? Surely you do not intend to resume your work in the hospitals—there can be no need of that now,” madam remarked with a clouded brow. “I am going to make a study of certain diseases, for a while, preparatory to my return to the United States.” “And will you not come to Rome at all while we are there?” “Perhaps, by and by; I cannot tell,” was the evasive reply. Madam had to content herself with that, for she saw that it would not do to press the matter further, and she returned to the chateau, where she reported the concession which her son had made, to Mrs. Rochester. “How long does his majesty expect I am going to wait for him to make up his royal mind whether he will condescend to take me or not?” Miss Rochester scornfully remarked with a toss of her handsome head, when this was repeated to her. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS ROCHESTER A VICTOR. Dr. Winthrop was greatly disturbed by his mother’s visit and the charge which she had brought against him in connection with Sadie Rochester. “The girl must know that she alone was to blame for the unlucky _contrétemps_ which occurred that morning,” he said impatiently, as he paced his room back and forth. “Why couldn’t she have explained the matter to her mother, and thus exonerated me from all blame? Perhaps she is ashamed to confess that she so betrayed herself. Such a confession, I admit, would be awkward for her; yet, in justice to me, she should have made it.” At last he sat down before his writing-desk, muttering resolutely: “I will at least give her the privilege of rejecting me, and that will settle the matter for all time. I am bored to death with this continual harping upon the subject of my marriage with the girl.” He wrote rapidly for a few moments, after which he signed his name with a reckless dash, and then proceeded to read over what he had written. The letter ran thus: