d, no mother," said Pauline, with an emphasis, as if she
thought her mother might be. "And why do you speak thus to me? You
introduced Mr. Wentworth yourself to me; you first invited him
here--and why, mother, do you affect this surprise now?" and Pauline's
color deepened, and her voice quivered as she thought, with a sense of
her mother's inconsistency and injustice.

"_I_ introduced him to you, Pauline! Yes, I believe I did--but what of
that? Do you suppose--no, Pauline, you are a girl of too much sense to
suppose that I must be willing you should marry every man I introduce
or invite to the house."

"What are your objections to Mr. Wentworth?" asked Pauline, firmly.

"My objections, Pauline! My child, you drive me almost mad!" said Mrs.
Grey, her daughter's manner forcing on her more and more the
conviction of the earnestness of her present fancy--for Mrs. Grey
could not think it more. "Why, Pauline, I have every objection to him.
What pretensions has he that should entitle him to dream of you,
Pauline? You, my child, with your talents and beauty, and
acquirements, are not surely going to throw yourself away upon this
young man, who is every way inferior to you."

"Mother," said Pauline, with energy, "you don't know him."

Mrs. Grey was silenced. She did not know him. There was that in his
countenance, air, and manner, although what might be called rather a
handsome young man, that is unmistakable to a practiced eye--traces of
a common mind, a something that had satisfied Mrs. Grey "he would not
do," when she had dismissed him from her mind. But what had she to say
to Pauline now?

She talked of her disappointment--of her hopes--her expectations; but
Pauline said she was not ambitious, and wanted none of these things.

Mrs. Grey was in despair. Pauline grew more and more resolute. Her eye
flashed, and her color rose, and the brow was bent, as when she was a
child. She and her mother talked long, and even warmly; and Mrs. Grey
returned to her husband, leaving Pauline in a state of great
excitement.

Mr. Grey was much disturbed by what his wife told him; but still,
though agitated, he was not as distressed as she was. The thing must
not and should not be--there he was firm--though he was pained,
exceedingly pained, that Pauline should be unhappy about it.

He looked upon her grief as of course a temporary feeling, but still,
even for her temporary sorrow he grieved exceedingly.

He wrote that evening to Mr.