ve Warrender a double intolerance in respect to Geoff
himself. To imagine that it was for the boy's sake was, he already felt,
the most unbearable offence. For the boy's sake! The boy would have been
swept away before now if thought could have done it. From the first
hour he had been impatient of the boy. The way in which he clung to his
mother had been a personal offence. And his mother!--ah no, she could do
no wrong. Not even in this matter, which sometimes tortured him, could
he blame Lady Markland. But that she or any one should imagine for a
moment that he was ready to sacrifice his time, his independence, so
much of his life, for the sake of Geoff! That was a misconception which
Warrender could not bear. "Don't let that little---- come near me," he
said to his mother, as he finally went off, somewhat feebly, to the old
library, where he could be sure of quiet. "Make the girls take care of
him and amuse him. She will probably come and fetch him, and I will
rest--till then."--That little---- Warrender did not add any epithet;
the adjective was enough.

"Till then,--till she comes! Is that all your thought?" said his mother.
"Oh, my poor boy!"

He met her eyes with a pride which scorned concealment. Yes, he would own
it here, where it would be in vain to deny it. He would not disavow the
secret of his heart. Mothers have keen eyes, but hers were not keen, they
were pitying,--more sad than tears. She looked at him, and once more
softly shook her head. The blood had rushed again to his face, dyeing
it crimson for a moment, and he held his head high as he made his
confession. "Yes, mother, that is all my thought." And then he walked
away, tingling with the first avowal he had ever made to mortal ears.
As for Mrs. Warrender, she stood looking after him with so mingled an
expression that scarcely the most delicate of casuists could have
divined the meaning in her. She was so sorry for him, so proud of him.
He was so young, not more than a boy, yet man enough to give all his
heart and his life--to sacrifice everything, even his pride--for the
sake of the woman he loved. His mother, who had never before come within
speaking distance of a passion like this, felt her heart glow and swell
with pride in him, with tender admiration beyond words. She had neither
loved nor been loved after this sort; and yet it was no romance of the
poets, but had a real existence, and was here, here by her side, in the
monotonous little world wh