ville, her heart quite failed her when she went into
the pleasant room, and sat down close by Rosalie. In spite of all
the strengthening thoughts of duty which she had taken with her as a
support in that interview, she was now at a sore loss, for it had
been a bitter grief to her kind heart when, of old, for duty's sake,
she made her children unhappy. How then could sh endure to take away
their life's best joy, their richest hope? It was a hard thing; and
many moments passed before she could nerve her strong spirit to
utter the first word. Rosalie, anxious and impatient, too, but
unsuspecting, at last exclaimed,

"What can it be that so much troubles you, mother?"

Then Mary Melville spoke, but with a voice so soft and sad, so faint
with emotion, that it seemed not at all her voice. She said,

"I want you to consider that what I say to you, dear child, has
given me more pain even to think of than I have ever felt before.
Duncan has told me of your engagement to marry with him; and it has
been my duty, my most sorrowful duty, oh! believe me, to tell him
that such a tie must never unite you. He can never be your husband;
you can never be his wife."

She paused, exhausted by her emotion; she could not utter another
syllable. Rosalie, who had watched her with fixed astonishment as
she listened to the words, was the first to speak again, and she
tried to say, calmly,

"Of course, you have a reason for saying so. It is but just that I
should know it."

"It cannot _be_ known. If I had ever in my life deceived you,
Rosalie, you might doubt me now, when I assure you that an
impediment, which cannot be named, exists to the marriage. Have I
not been a mother to you always?" she asked, appealingly,
imploringly: "I love you as I love Duncan, and it cuts me to the
heart to grieve you."

"Has Duncan given you an answer?"

"Yes, Rosalie."

"And it--?"

"He has trusted to his mother!" she said, almost proudly.

"Rather than me," quickly interrupted Rosalie.

"Rather than do that which is wrong; which might hereafter prove the
misery of you both, my child."

"Where is he? Why does he not come himself to tell me this? If the
thing is really true, _his_ lips should have spoken it, and not
another's."

"Oh! Rosalie, he could not do it. I believe his heart is broken. Do
not look so upon me. Is it not enough that I bitterly regret, that I
shall always deplore, having not foreseen the result of your
companionship? Say only