it on the table by the time you can get out to the dining-room.”
Floy brought little appetite to her meal, and ate mechanically, scarcely knowing what the viands were.
She had just risen from the table when Mrs. Alden came in. Floy flushed slightly on seeing her. She knew that Mr. Alden had gone away very angry, and was doubtful how far his wife would be in sympathy with him.
But the greeting of the latter was kind and motherly as usual.
“I’m so glad the poor head is better again,” she said, kissing the girl affectionately. “You must forgive me for calling Espy away this morning. I had to get him to drive out to the country for butter and eggs, for there were none to be had in town, and I’d nobody else to send. He hasn’t got back yet, or you may be sure he’d have been in again.”
Talking on, with hardly a pause for a reply, Mrs. Alden gradually approached the subject of the morning’s conversation between her husband and Floy.
“I honor you for your intentions, my dear,” she said. “I know they are altogether good and right, but you’re very young and inexperienced, and I think have a morbid conscientiousness that blinds you to your own interests, and, if you’ll allow me to say it, to Espy’s too, because if you’re going to be man and wife you can’t have separate interests.”
“Dear Mrs. Alden,” said Floy, with a patient sigh, “you cannot surely think it is ever right to do evil that good may come, or that ill-gotten wealth will be of real benefit to its possessor?”
“No, child, certainly not,” she answered with some annoyance, “but those questions don’t apply in this case. You needn’t be afraid that anything my husband does or advises could be wrong, because he’s too good a man.”
It probably did not occur to the loyal wife that she was reversing the Bible test—judging of the fruit by the tree, instead of the tree by its fruit.
“I do not think he would do or advise anything that he thought wrong,” returned Floy gently; “but you know each of us must act according to his or her own conscience, and mine absolutely refuses to see this matter as Mr. Alden does.”
“Well, I mostly let him judge for me,” said Mrs. Alden. “I find it’s the only way to have peace, and I can’t live in a constant broil; not that he’s particularly ill-natured, but he naturally thinks he ought to be master in his own house. Another thing, Floy: if he once sets his foot down there’s no getting him to lift it again, and he vows that if you persist in giving up this property Espy shall never marry you with his consent. So, you see if you can’t be persuaded there’ll be endless trouble for us all.”
Floy’s cheek crimsoned and her eye flashed, while the pretty head was thrown haughtily back as she drew herself up with an air of wounded pride.
“It was your son who sought me, Mrs. Alden, not I him; nor shall I ever thrust myself into a family where I am not wanted and should be made an element of discord.”
Mrs. Alden was thoroughly dismayed.
“My dear child,” she hastened to say, “I did not mean to hurt your feelings, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you. But Espy will never give you up; he’d break with his father and all of us first, and—”
“He can’t marry me against my will,” interrupted Floy; “so pray dismiss all anxiety on that score. I would no more rob you and Mr. Alden of your son than—than I would steal the inheritance of the heirs at law of this property.”
“Oh, Floy, Floy, to make you break with Espy is the very last thing I intended; don’t do it; he’d never forgive me; but oh! if I only could persuade you to keep this secret of your birth and—”
“It is already too late,” answered the girl in a low, quiet tone, “the deed is done.”
CHAPTER IX.
WHAT ESPY SAID ABOUT IT.
“Dost thou deem
It such an easy task from the fond breast
To root affection out?”—Southey.
“What shall I do? what shall I do?” Mrs. Alden asked herself again and again as, in great perturbation of spirit, she awaited Espy’s return. “How angry and distressed he’ll be, poor boy!”
She was at a loss to determine whether it would be best to break the news to him herself, or to let him hear it first from Floy or his father.
But circumstances decided for her. As she sat at the window watching the lengthening shadows as the sun drew near his setting, and saying to herself that Espy was very late—it was nearly tea-time, and she almost began to fear that he had met with some accident—she heard the gate swing, and turning her head saw him coming up the gravel walk that led from it to the house.
He moved with rapid strides, and there was an angry flush on his cheek, an indignant light in his eye, which told her at once that he had already been made aware of the unfortunate turn affairs had taken.
In a moment more he stood before her with folded arms, firmly-set mouth, and stern eyes.
“Espy, my son! Oh, I am so sorry!”
“Yes, mother,” he said, “my father and I have had a quarrel; he called me into his office as I passed, and ordered me to give up all thoughts of Floy—my little Floy that I’ve loved from my very infancy!”
“And what did you say, Espy?” she asked tremulously, feeling as if the very unreasonableness and tyranny of the command must have of itself almost deprived him of the power of speech.
“Say, mother? that he might as well ask me to shoot myself through the heart, and that I’d never give her up; I’d die first.”
“But—but, Espy, what—what if she gives you up?” gasped his mother, fairly frightened by his vehemence.
He staggered back as if struck by a heavy blow, while a deathly pallor overspread his face for an instant.
“But she will not!” he said hoarsely; “she has pledged herself to me, and she’ll never prove false to her word.”
“But she is very proud, Espy—too proud, I think, to come into a family where she’s not wanted; and she’s a good girl, and will see that it’s your duty to obey your father.”
He dropped into a chair, and for a moment seemed lost in thought; then with a sigh, “My father may have a right to control me even in this while I am a minor; but, as you know, mother, in six months I shall have reached my majority, and then I’ll be my own master, and shall consider that in a matter which will affect my happiness so much more nearly than his, and probably for my whole life, I have a right to follow my own wishes. Besides, there is Floy’s happiness to be taken into account. She says she loves me; we’ve pledged ourselves to each other, my father consenting to it at the time—and could he ask me to play so base a part as to forsake the dear girl merely because she has become poor and friendless? I think even he would despise
