"There is only one way of securing our first object," continued Mr. Creswell, "and that is by your continuing in this house." "That is impossible, Mr. Creswell. I have already explained to you the reason." "Not impossible in one way, Marian--a way too that will secure the other object we have in view--your mother's peace of mind about you. Marian, will you remain in this house as its mistress--as my wife?" It had come at last, the golden chance! She knew that he understood she had accepted him, and that was all. Mr. Creswell went on rapturously, telling her how his love had grown as he had watched her beauty, her charming intelligence, her discretion, and her worth; how he had been afraid she might think he was too old for her; how she should prove the warmth of his affection and the depth of his gratitude. All this he said, but she heard none of it. Her brain was running on her having at last achieved the position and the wealth so long a source of bitter misery and despair to her. The end was gained; now life would indeed be something to her. When they reached the house, Mr. Creswell wanted to go with her at once to Mrs. Ashurst's room; but Marian begged to be alone for a few moments, and parted with him at the door. As she passed through the hall she saw a letter lying on the table addressed to her. It was the letter from Walter Joyce. CHAPTER XIX. MARIAN'S REPLY. Marian held the letter in her hand for a moment, irresolute whether to open it and read it at once, or to defer its perusal until another opportunity, when her mind might be less perturbed, and the feeling of conscious guilt then uppermost in her soul might have become quieted and soothed down. She was fully alive to the knowledge that she had behaved with the blackest treachery to Walter Joyce, had dealt him the severest stab, the deadliest blow, of which she was capable, had--for the time at least--completely blackened his future prospects; and yet, although he had done nothing to deserve this base treatment--on the contrary, had been for ever loyal and devoted to her under the most adverse circumstances--her feeling for him was not one of pity, of regret, or even of contempt, but of downright hatred. She knew that she had been seriously to blame in neglecting all correspondence with her lover of late, and she imagined that the letter, which she still held unopened in her hand, was doubtless one of remonstrance or complaint. He had no right now to address her after such fashion, or indeed after any fashion whatever. This last thought struck her for an instant with a touch of tenderness, but she quickly put it aside as she thrust the letter into the bosom of her dress, and made her way to her mother's room.