Again he tried to reason with her, to be true to himself and her; but Nea would not give him up or let him tell her father. She would marry Maurice at once if he wished it; yes, perhaps that would be the wisest plan. Her father would never give his consent, but when it was too late to prevent it he might be induced to forgive their marriage. It was very wrong, she knew, but it would be the only way to free her from Lord Bertie. Her father would be terribly angry, but his anger would not last; she was his only child, and he had never denied her anything. Poor Nea! there was something pathetic in her blindness and perfect faith in her father; even Maurice felt his misgivings silenced as he listened to her innocent talk; and again the angels wept over Maurice's deeper fall, and Nea's unholy victory. They had planned it all; in three weeks' time they were to be married. Mr. Huntingdon could not leave before then. On the day before that fixed for the journey the bond was to be sealed and signed between them, so that no power of man could part them. Mr. Huntingdon might storm ever so loudly, his anger would break against an adamantine fate. "Those whom God has joined together no man can put asunder"--words of sacred terror and responsibility. The next three weeks were very troubled ones to Maurice; his brief interviews with Nea were followed by hours of bitter misgivings. But Nea was childishly excited and happy; every day her love for Maurice increased and deepened. The shadow of his moral weakness could not hide his many virtues. She gloried in the thought of being his wife. Oh, yes, her father would be good to them; perhaps, after all, they would go to Pau, but Maurice and not Lord Bertie would be with them. Nea never hesitated, never repented, though Maurice's face grew thin and haggard with anxiety as the days went by. They were to be married in one of the old city churches; and afterward Maurice was to take her to his lodgings in Ampton Street; and they were to write a letter to Mr. Huntingdon. Maurice must help her write it, Nea said. Of course her father would be angry--fearfully angry--but after a few hours he would calm down, and then he would send the carriage for her; and there would be a scene of penitence and reconciliation. Nea painted it all in glowing colors, but Maurice shook his head with a sad smile, and begged her not to deceive herself. Mr. Huntingdon might not forgive them for a long time, for he remembered George Anderson, and the inexorable will that would have condemned the young criminal to penal servitude. And so one morning as Mr. Huntingdon was sitting by the open window watching the children play in the May sunshine and wondering why his daughter had not been to wish him good-morning, Nea had stolen out of her father's house, and was hurrying through the sunny square and green, deserted park until she found Maurice waiting for her, who silently took her hand, and put her into the carriage.