ing to it now, the very heart of the
meaning. Go on," authoritatively, and seizing her sister in her arms,
"or I'll _shake_ it out of you."

"It is this then," says Mrs. Monkton slowly. "I don't think it is a
_wise_ thing for you to go there so often."

"Oh Barbara! Owl of Wisdom as thou art, why not?" The girl is laughing,
yet a deep flush of color has crept into each cheek.

"Never mind the why not. Perhaps it is unwise to go _anywhere_ too
often; and you must acknowledge that you spent almost the entire spring
there."

"Well, I hinted all that to Mr. Dysart."

"Was he here?"

"Yes. He came down from the Court with the note."

"And--who else is to be there?"

"Oh! the Clontarfs, and Dicky Browne, and Lady Swansdown and a great
many others."

"Mr. Beauclerk?" she does not look at Joyce as she asks this question.

"Yes."

A little silence follows, broken at last by Joyce.

"_May_ I go?"

"Do you think it is the best thing for you to do?" says Mrs. Monkton,
flushing delicately. "_Think_, darling! You know--you _must_ know,
because you have it always before you," flushing even deeper, "that to
marry into a family where you are not welcomed with open heart is to
know much private discomfiture."

"I know this too," says the girl, petulantly, "that to be married to a
man like Freddy, who consults your lightest wish, and is your lover
always, is worth the enduring of anything."

"I think that too," says Mrs. Monkton, who has now grown rather pale.
"But there is still one more thing to know--that in making such a
marriage as we have described, a woman lays out a thorny path for her
husband. She separates him from his family, and as all good men have
strong home ties, she naturally compels him to feel many a secret pang."

"But he has his compensations. Do you think if Freddy got the chance, he
would give you up and go back to his family?"

"No--not that. But to rejoice in that thought is to be selfish. Why
should he not have my love and the love of his people too? There is a
want somewhere. What I wish to impress upon you, Joyce, is this, that a
woman who marries a man against his parents' wishes has much to regret,
much to endure."

"I think you are ungrateful," says the girl a little vehemently. "Freddy
has made you endure nothing. You are the happiest married woman I know."

"Yes, but I have made _him_ endure a great deal," says Mrs. Monkton in a
low tone. She rises, and going to the window, stands