often. That doesn't alter our clear duty in the matter. If the woman
were bad, or shameful, it would be a different thing; if--"

Marion interrupted: "She has ridden bareback across the continent like a
jockey,--like a common jockey, and she wears a blanket, and she doesn't
know a word of English, and she will sit on the floor!"

"Well," said her father, "all these things are not sins, and she must be
taught better."

"Joseph, how can you?" said Mrs. Armour indignantly. "She cannot, she
shall not come here. Think of Marion. Think of our position."

She hid her troubled, tear-stained face behind her handkerchief. At the
same time she grasped her husband's hand. She knew that he was right.
She honoured him in her heart for the position he had taken, but she
could not resist the natural impulse of a woman where her taste and
convention were shocked.

The old man was very pale, but there was no mistaking his determination.
He had been more indignant than any of them, at first, but he had an
unusual sense of justice when he got face to face with it, as Richard
had here helped him to do. "We do not know that the woman has done any
wrong," he said. "As for our name and position, they, thank God! are
where a mad marriage cannot unseat them. We have had much prosperity in
the world, my wife; we have had neither death nor dishonour; we--"

"If this isn't dishonour, father, what is?" Marion flashed out.

He answered calmly. "My daughter, it is a great misfortune, it will
probably be a lifelong trial, but it is not necessarily dishonour."

"You never can make a scandal less by trying to hide it," said Richard,
backing up his father. "It is all pretty awkward, but I daresay we shall
get some amusement out of it in the end."

"Richard," said his mother through her tears, "you are flippant and
unkind!"

"Indeed, mother," was his reply, "I never was more serious in my life.
When I spoke of amusement, I meant comedy merely, not fun--the thing
that looks like tragedy and has a happy ending. That is what I mean,
mother, nothing more."

"You are always so very deep, Richard," remarked Marion ironically, "and
care so very little how the rest of us feel about things. You have
no family pride. If you had married a squaw, we shouldn't have been
surprised. You could have camped in the grounds with your wild woman,
and never have been missed--by the world," she hastened to add, for she
saw a sudden pain in his face.

He turned from