l," said the father, meaning the tomato plants.

"Yes, they _do_ look well," answered his son; "I was just thinking
as much before you came in."

There was a long silence here. Frank knew that his father had
something to communicate to him, and he guessed what it was.
However, he did not help him out of his embarrassment.

Finally, after several preliminary hems to clear his throat, Mr.
Mathers began: "It is a good thing that the tomatoes are planted;
to-morrow you will not work, I suppose."

"I hope I shall, I have all these boxes to clear away."

"Yes, yes, but to-morrow I am going to be married."

Frank did not answer. He raised his eyes and looked straight at his
father. His lips quivered and refused to utter a sound.

The son's gaze was more than a match for the father's. Mr. Mathers
was not yet so hardened as to laugh and look back defiantly at his
son. He, however, recovered his self-composure, tried to make
himself believe that he was in his perfect right, and in a
well-feigned voice--"Well?" he said interrogatively.

Not a word came from the son's lips; a deep sigh escaped him. He
stepped forward and walked out of the greenhouse, leaving his father
there--alone.

The couple were quietly married at the Greffe the next day.

Frank went about his work as usual, and when he came in to dine, his
step-mother was awaiting him, her face beaming with smiles.

When Frank found himself thus confronted by Mrs. Mathers No. 2, he
did not feel nearly so hostile to her as he had felt towards his
father.

He could not however welcome her warmly when his heart clamoured
otherwise. He was not a hypocrite.

When the husband advanced with his wife, the youth took the
outstretched hand and in a cold tone, his lips still uttering what
his heart did not inspire, he said, as if welcoming a stranger: "I
am happy to make your acquaintance, madam."

He soon perceived that he had gone rather too far. He had acted on
the impulse of the moment. In fact, he had dug the abyss that was
ever to lie between his step-mother and himself.

"After all," he said to himself, "it is better to obey one's heart."
He did not even stop to think that there were two powers at work.

He was more to be pitied than blamed. He had loved his mother
dearly, and now that she was dead, he revered her memory.

He now perceived the influence of a good home. It had rescued him
from a life of idleness and perhaps of vice. The genial atmosphere
of th