ve come here to ask if you can love me."

It was a most decided way of declaring his purpose, and one which made
Mary feel that a great difficulty was at once thrown upon her. She really
did not know whether she could love him or not. Why shouldn't she have
been able to love him? Was it not natural enough that she should be able?
But she knew that she ought not to love him, whether able or not. There
were various reasons which were apparent enough to her though it might be
very difficult to make him see them. He was little more than a boy, and
had not yet finished his education. His father and mother would not
expect him to fall in love, at any rate till he had taken his degree. And
they certainly would not expect him to fall in love with the daughter of
his tutor. She had an idea that, circumstanced as she was, she was bound
by loyalty both to her own father and to the lad's father not to be able
to love him. She thought that she would find it easy enough to say that
she did not love him; but that was not the question. As for being able to
love him,--she could not answer that at all.

"Lord Carstairs," she said, severely, "you ought not to have come here
when papa and mamma are away."

"I didn't know they were away. I expected to find them here."

"But they ain't. And you ought to go away."

"Is that all you can say to me?"

"I think it is. You know you oughtn't to talk to me like that. Your own
papa and mamma would be angry if they knew it."

"Why should they be angry? Do you think that I shall not tell them?"

"I am sure they would disapprove it altogether," said Mary. "In fact it
is all nonsense, and you really must go away."

Then she made a decided attempt to enter the house by the drawing-room
window, which opened out on a gravel terrace.

But he stopped her, standing boldly by the window. "I think you ought to
give me an answer, Mary," he said.

"I have; and I cannot say anything more. You must let me go in."

"If they say that it's all right at Carstairs, then will you love me?"

"They won't say that it's all right; and papa won't think that it's right.
It's very wrong. You haven't been to Oxford yet, and you'll have to
remain there for three years. I think it's very ill-natured of you to
come and talk to me like this. Of course it means nothing. You are only
a boy, but yet you ought to know better."

"It does mean something. It means a great deal. As for being a boy, I am