steadily.

"You are an obstinate and very ill-advised young man, Lorimer of
Fairmead," he said, making an evident effort to restrain his fury--at
which I took courage, for it was his cold malevolence that I disliked
most. "Grace, you shall hear now once and for all what I tell him.
Lorimer, you shall never marry Miss Carrington with my consent."

It may not have been judicious, but I was seldom successful in choosing
words, and expected nothing but his strongest opposition, so I answered
stoutly, "I trust that you will even yet grant it, sir. If not--and Miss
Carrington is of age--we must endeavor to do without it."

He turned from me, striking the impatient horse, and when the beast stood
fast, he fixed his eyes on his daughter.

"Have you lost your reason as well as all sense of duty, Grace?" he
stormed. "What is this beggarly farmer, the nephew of my bitterest enemy,
that you should give up so much for him? Have you counted the
cost--hardship, degrading drudgery, and your father's displeasure? And
would you choose these instead of your natural position as mistress of
Carrington?"

"While I have strength to work for her she shall suffer none of them," I
said. But neither, apparently, heeded me, and, rapidly growing fiercer,
the old man added:

"There will be no half-measures--you must make the choice. As that man's
wife you will never enter the doors of the Manor. Remember who you are,
girl, and shake off this foolishness."

His mood changed in an instant. Colonel Carrington was clearly not himself
that day, for there was an almost pleading tone in the concluding words,
and he awaited her answer in a state of tense anxiety, while I could see
that Grace was trembling.

"It is too late, father. The choice is already made," she said. "There are
worse things than poverty, and if it comes we can bear it together. We
hope you will still yield your consent, even though we wait long for it,
and had you asked anything but this I should have done it. Now I have
given my promise--and I do not wish to break it."

Her voice was strained and uneven, and with a thrill of pride, leaning
sideways from the saddle, I caught her horse's bridle as by right of
ownership. However, in spite of his enmity, I was sorry for Colonel
Carrington. It must have been a trying moment, for he loved his daughter,
but wounded pride gained the mastery, and his face grew livid. I made some
protestation that we both regretted his displeasure, and