By an early train Osborne and Nevill left London for Stratford-on-Avon next day. Marie did not see him after that brief interview in the drawing-room the previous evening. Nevill asked Osborne if he had any objection to travel in a smoking compartment. Osborne answered, not the least. They started with two other men in the compartment. Thus private conversation was impossible, and neither cared to talk of general matters. Each read, or affected to read, a newspaper. When they arrived at Stratford, Osborne took Nevill to The Falcon, and went straight to his mother's. He found Mrs Osborne at home. She was surprised to see him; but she was one of those placid, lymphatic natures not easily disturbed or ruffled. She took off her gold-rimmed spectacles and placed them on the open page of Tillotson's Sermons lying on the table at her elbow. 'I did not expect you, George. You did not write to say you were coming. Where is your sister Kate?' 'I had no reason to think I was coming until it was too late to write last night, and I did not like telegraphing, lest you might be alarmed. Kate is in London, and quite well. Where is little Alice?' 'She is gone over to Mrs Craven, who is very bad--believed to be dying. I do not expect her to be back for an hour or two. Mrs Craven has been a great sufferer while you have been away. The doctor says she may die at any moment. Mr Craven is greatly to be pitied.' 'As you may guess, mother, I have not come for nothing. I wish to speak with you on a matter of importance.' Mrs Osborne took a letter out of her pocket, opened it on her lap, and, holding her finger on the sheet, said quietly,-- 'I got this letter from you, my son, in which you say you have met a lady in London whom you intend making your wife, or proposing marriage to. I daresay it is about that matter you wish to speak with me.' 'It--it is not about that I wish to speak with you now, but another matter of importance.' 'Very well, my son. I thought now you are in Stratford, now you have come back to your old home, you might care to say something to your mother about the lady you are going to make your wife, and about your approaching marriage. George, you are not looking well. I hope you are not breaking bad news to me?' 'No, no, mother. I am quite well, and bear no bad news. You must excuse my not entering upon the--the subject of my--of my mar--of my own affairs just now.' 'I know you too well, my son, to think you act without sufficient reason or judgment, and I am certain you act on good reasons when you do not wish to tell me of this haste--I mean this engagement of yours to a lady who was quite unknown to you, as I understand, a few weeks ago. I cannot help my feelings, for I am your mother. You, of course, are old enough and sensible enough to arrange your marriage yourself; but, as I said, not wishing, my son, to hurt you, I cannot help having a mother's feeling in the matter. You are my son.' 'Mother, mother, take my word for it I have good reason for not alluding to my own affairs at present. I know it must look very strange to you that I should not open my mind to you on that matter; but, trust me, I have good reason for not doing so just now.' 'You say no more for yourself than I say for you. Do not for a moment think I am suspecting you of having poor reasons for your silence. When you asked Kate to go up to London, I said,--"We know George has always good reasons for what he does and says." I say so still. I think it a little strange you should ask Kate up to London--say you wanted her most particularly--become engaged to a strange lady, and then come home saying, "I have nothing to tell you about my own marriage." My son, I do not blame or reproach you. I have the fullest faith in your good sense and judgment, but good sense and judgment are not feeling, and you are my son.' He was sitting in front of her, at the opposite side of the table on which Tillotson lay. He dropped his head on his hand, and, turning his white, worn face to the window, looked out at the bare wet trees standing up in the bare wet winter day. 'I am very sorry, mother, very sorry,' he said, after a long pause. 'Very sorry for what, George?' 'For what I cannot say.' 'You are changed, my child, greatly changed. London has altered you more in a few days than all the years before. I pray it may be a wholesome change.' 'Mother, you used, when we were little children, before my father died, to come into the room we slept in, and pray in a loud whisper, so that you should not wake us, but that God might know you were in great earnest.' 'Yes, my child; you were a little fellow then, not up to my elbow.' 'Do you, now that we are grown up, pray for us, mother?' 'Daily, my child, daily, day and night, and often when I am alone in the daytime, and always when I hear of evil or danger. What have I to do now, my child, but pray for my children while I am on earth, and ask God to show me grace and lead me to Him and to the presence of your good father by-and-by?' 'I have told you I do not care to speak of my own affairs just now. I ask you, mother, to pray for me. I am in sore trouble.' 'In sore trouble, and will not tell me! In sore trouble about your marriage? I hope not, my boy.' 'Yes and no. You must not press me, mother. I am troubled, and you must not press me. Pray for me. All may be right yet, but up to this all is not right.' 'My dear son, my dear George, you may count on my prayers. What can be the matter? I hope, George, you have not given away your affections to any unworthy person. You tell me nothing about her or your marriage, and now you ask me to pray for you. I hope it is not as I fear?' 'No, no, no, mother. It is I who am unworthy, and need the help of Heaven towards worthiness, not she. She is all that is good and amiable.' 'You unworthy, George! Why, no woman alive could be too good for you. What can have put such a notion in your head? I hope you are not going to marry anyone with new-fangled religious notions. I hope she is not one of those for whom the simple religion of the English Church and England's Queen is not satisfactory; who must set up some foolish superstition of their own.' 'She was brought up, mother, as you and I were--in the Church of England; and she now holds the same faith as you. Be not uneasy on that account; and, mother, as a great favour, let us talk no more of my affairs for the present. I have other matters on which the happiness of two people depends, to speak to you about.' He turned his face away from the window, and looked gravely into his mother's eyes. She simply bowed in token that he was to proceed. 'When I went to London, as you know, I had neither friend nor acquaintance there. I stopped at the private hotel Garvage recommended. I arrived in London on Saturday night, and on Sunday I made the acquaintance of a man named Nevill--William Nevill. I have seen a great deal of him since. I have met him every day since, and I do not think I am misled when I say he is a respectable man, one whom you would be glad to know and receive. He has come down to Stratford expressly to see you, and is now at The Falcon awaiting your permission to call upon you.' 'I shall be very glad to receive any friend of yours, George. Why did you not bring him here direct? It scarcely looks hospitable to leave your friend at an hotel, when you know we have plenty of room and welcome.' 'He wishes to speak to you on a very important subject, and, as much will depend on your answer, he and I thought it best he should for the present put up at The Falcon.' 'Is he any relative of the lady you propose making your wife?' 'No, mother. He has no relatives alive. He is alone in the world, and thinks of settling down in England. He is an Englishman, but has spent much time travelling, and has been only a short time in England. He will settle down somewhere in the Midlands, perhaps here in Stratford, and he hopes you and he will get on very well together.' 'I am sure I hope so too, with all my heart. I shall always be glad to meet any friend of yours, and try to be friendly to him. You said he had some question to ask me, George. What is it? Do you know what it is?' 'Yes, I know. It may take you by surprise, mother, but it is only in the nature of things such a request should be made. I think he means to ask you to allow him to pay his addresses to Kate.' 'What!' cried Mrs Osborne, rising to her feet. 'He wants to take Kate away from me? London has taken you, and now it is going to take away my darling Kate. Oh, this is too bad, too bad!' She sank into her chair and covered her face for a moment. 'He does not mean to take Kate away. On the contrary, he means to live here in Stratford, close to you.' 'But why need Kate marry an interloping London man, or a traveller? Was not Mr Garvage good enough for her--an old neighbour, and most respectable man and family? Surely he is good enough for her. For, of course, this man would never come to me unless Kate told him; and, of course, Kate would not tell him to come to me unless she was willing to have him.' 'When he spoke to Kate, she told him she could give him no answer until he had spoken to you.' 'I know, of course, Kate would act properly in any such case; but that is not enough. I think--I think she had no right to favour a stranger who wants to take her away from me, instead of a settled, respectable, well-known man like Mr Garvage.' 'But, mother, I have explained to you that he has no intention of taking Kate away from you. Would you not be glad to see Kate well settled in Stratford?' 'Yes, in Stratford?' 'Well, you may be easy on that subject. He has money. He will buy a house in this neighbourhood, and Kate will live close to you.' 'What is this man like?' 'He is not very good-looking. His complexion is dark, and he is thin.' 'What in the name of wonder did Kate see in him?' 'He is very amiable and agreeable and amusing. I don't think you ever met a man of exactly his kind.' 'I am prepared to meet a man I shall not like.' 'Then I am certain you will be disappointed.' 'What are his means and his family?' 'He is in very fair circumstances. He has thirty thousand pounds.' 'Well, and what family is he of?' 'He has no living relative, as I told you. His father was in trade--a merchant in New York.' 'A merchant of New York! This is very bad, George. The Americans who come here are not the kind of people I should care to select a husband for my daughter from. And a merchant?' 'I don't think he is in trade himself. In fact, I don't think he ever has been; so great a traveller cannot have had any time for business matters.' 'I cannot understand how Kate could like him. An American, whose father, any way, has been in trade, and who is not himself good-looking. Now, Mr Garvage is a gentleman, and of a good stock and good property. I can't understand Kate. I can't indeed. Do you think she has fully made up her mind to accept him?' 'I only know, mother, what I have told you. I am sure Kate has not made up her mind to anything that does not depend on your decision.' 'I understand that. What I mean is, do you think Kate has made up her mind to accept this man if I give my consent to his paying her his addresses?' 'From the fact that Kate refers him to you, I should think so.' 'She has not told you so herself?' 'No, mother. I have not, I must tell you, seen her alone since she referred Nevill to you.' 'Not seen your sister Kate since this new acquaintance of yours proposed to her! Indeed, George, you astonish me. What am I to think of all this? I can scarcely credit my ears.' 'The fact is, I have been and am in such a distracted state of mind about my own affairs, I could not do anything rational in London. I am calmer down here. I wish, with all my heart and soul, I had never left this.' 'My son! What, am I listening to the words of my sane son, or those of a man whose brain is turned?' 'I think my brain is a little out of order. I fear I greatly exaggerate things; but they are bad enough with me now. When I came to you about Kate I had two objects in view--first, to tell you about that matter, and second, to get away from London, if even for only a few hours. Coming here has done me good. Until now I had no intention of telling you; but somehow the peace of this place, and being with you once again, the silence and freshness, give me ease and comfort me. And you, mother, above all--you, with your dear kind face and your simple goodness, have made me a new man almost, although I am still sorely perplexed.' 'Tell me, child, all your trouble. Am I not your best and most unselfish friend?' 'Oh yes, mother. But what I have to tell you will shock and pain you even more than anything I have yet told you. When I left Stratford I had strong religious feelings.' 'Yes, my son.' 'Well, mother, would you not be greatly shocked if I told you I felt, since I left this, a strong tendency to join--abandon my creed for some other?' 'Why do you ask so absurd a question? Of course I should be shocked and grieved beyond measure.' 'It is worse then even that. I have lost all I had, and have got nothing back in return.' 'My son, my son, this strange woman has stolen away your brain.' 'No, mother, it is still more desperate. She has stolen my heart, and God has taken away my reason and wholesomeness, and I wish it would please God to take away my life too.' 'My son!' She rose and threw her arms round his neck. 'My son, my darling son! My child, my child! How can you say such things to me, your mother?' 'Mother, for all sakes, it would be well if I died.'