"Why don't you like him?"

It was the next morning, and Mrs. Greatorex, lounging on a sofa in her bedroom, was regarding Agatha with a rather stern air.

Dr. Darkham, true to the promise he had made to himself, had gone to Rickton Villa the previous night, had sought a private interview with her, and told her all: of his admiration for her niece, of his fear of losing her unless he spoke at once, of his belief that Dillwyn was in love with her also, and of the settlements he was prepared to make.

These last were very handsome. For the past twenty years of his successful life, he had saved far more than he had spent— refusing to go much into society or to entertain, because of his wife's deficiencies, though by his marriage with that wife he had been made a rich man. There had been no settlements on his marriage with her, and all her fortune was now within his grasp. It was with that, indeed, he intended to buy Agatha.

Mrs. Greatorex's ambitious heart rose to the bait. The sum he proposed to settle on Agatha was considerably more than she had even hoped for, and during the past week or two she had been led by Darkham to understand that he loved her "niece," as she always called Agatha.

Darkham, watching her, half smiled to himself—she was so easily read, and so sordid, and so mean, with all her absurd aristocratic airs and hints at the greatness of her family that did not know her.

He went on carefully. He fought his way with ease. He even ventured to tell her in a subdued whisper that he had never really cared for his first wife—it was a boyish infatuation, and she was older than he was—and—well, the same old vulgar story that we all know by heart and despise and don't believe in.

Mrs. Greatorex chose to believe it, however. At the last she gave him to understand that she would urge her niece by every means in her power to accept his offer. Her refusal of him that afternoon was probably mere girlish embarrassment, she said. As for that suggestion about Dr. Dillwyn, she was quite positive there was nothing in it.

She was looking now at the "dearest girl"—who was looking back at with anxious eyes. She did not appear "shy," however—only very anxious and unhappy.

She did not answer, so Mrs. Greatorex went on,—-

"He told me he had spoken to you yesterday, and that you had refused him. You must have been out of your senses when you did that. He is prepared to make splendid settlements—-"

"I shouldn't object to settlements if—if I didn't object to— him," said Agatha in a low voice.

"To him! To Dr. Darkham? What can you see to object to in him? He is handsome—clever—-"

"He is old," said Agatha, trifling with the question as if to gain time.

"That is the last epithet to apply to him. My dear Agatha, consider. He is clever, as I say, and learned, and so kind and thoughtful. I'm sure his goodness to me during my illness—- Now, what further objection can you make?"

"I can't bear him," said Agatha, suddenly, which, indeed, was the conclusion of the whole matter.

"My dear! At your age! I beg, Agatha, that you will cease to consider yourself a baby. Such a speech as that, if you were a baby, might pass muster, but for a girl who has seen her twentieth year it sounds simply foolish. Why, when I was your age I had had six proposals. And you—have you had a single proposal, save this most fortunate one?"

She paused. Agatha did not answer. Meantime, Mrs. Greatorex waited relentlessly.

"Well?" she said.

"No." The answer was very faint, and it awoke in Mrs. Greatorex's mind a suspicion. Was the girl deceiving her? Was there an actual engagement between her and Dr. Dillwyn?

"No? Are you sure, Agatha? It seemed to me that you hesitated. I hope there is nothing in a certain absurd report I have heard about you and Dr. Dillwyn."

"There is nothing to say," said she in a low, anguished voice. Oh, that there had been!

"I am at liberty, then," said her tormentor, "to tell Dr. Darkham that you are absolutely free—that you care for nobody—- that your heart is still your own to dispose of? I may tell him that you have never felt so much as a passing fancy for this young man, Dr. Dillwyn, who has been sent here through a whim of Reginald Greatorex—to starve, as far as I can see; for Dr. Darkham, as you know, has all the paying practice, and Reginald Greatorex"—bitterly—"as you also know, is a false friend, and a man that would rather die than part with a penny. I may tell Dr. Darkham that?"

Agatha, pale as death, lifted up her eyes and looked at her.

"Not that," she said; "do not tell him that. I—-" she grew whiter and whiter, but she was true to herself and her own heart to the last—"I love Dr. Dillwyn."

"Agatha!" Mrs. Greatorex rose, and stood before her, filled with wrathful horror. To tell the truth, she was genuinely shocked. Her narrow prejudices could not conceive such a thing as this.

"When he has never spoken to you—never—-"

"I know. It is—it sounds dreadful," said the girl wildly.

"But"—folding her hands upon her breast—"he will speak. He will."

There was silence.

"I trust not. I believe not," said Mrs. Greatorex at last. Here tone was cold, and there was a certain element of disgust in it that hurt the girl to her very soul. Why—why had she spoken? And yet to deny him! She would suffer for it, but hers was the nobler part, and in the end she would be placed above shame. But if he never spoke! A cold wind seemed to creep over her, chilling her through and through. It was her one doubt of him, and it died at birth, but she always repented herself for it. "In the meantime, Agatha, you must permit me to say that I am horrified beyond words at your confession."

"I shall never marry Dr. Darkham," said the girl slowly, miserably, but with great courage. "Let me leave you, Aunt Hilda. Let me go out in the world as a governess. I could make my own way, perhaps—and—-"

"Don't talk to me like that, Agatha. You—my niece! Do you think I am going to have you spoken of by the people here as a paid person? No, you shall stay here." She rose to her feet and pointed imperiously to the door. "You shall stay here and marry Dr. Darkham, and thank God for your good fortune. Now go; leave me." She pointed again to the door, and Agatha, sad and sick at heart, went out of the room.

When she was gone, Mrs. Greatorex tried to rest again upon her lounge, but failed. That slip of a girl to refuse such an offer as this! A girl who was literally penniless! She stormed and raged as she walked up and down her small room. As a fact, she had grown honestly fond of Agatha—as fond as she could be of anything outside herself; but she was fonder still of her ambition—and to see Agatha married to a man without position or money....