Mrs. Fielding had not attended the funeral of her old servant. She had kept her room several days, under the plea of illness, in order to lend color to the assertion that her hair had changed color from neuralgia.

But she had managed to moderate the angry impatience that had so wounded and startled her beautiful daughters, and now permitted them to spend a short while with her daily, placing a strong command over herself that she might endure their presence without raving over the storm of anger that filled her heart.

So when Flower came to her that day to ask her to give Laurie Meredith an interview she did not refuse, only sent the girl away, saying that she would be down in a few minutes.

When the door shut between her and Flower, she stood there startled and wild-eyed.

"What does it mean? Is he going to ask me for one of my daughters? My daughters!—ah, I forgot!" she cried, wildly; and a swift determination came to her that neither of the girls should be permitted to marry until she found out something which was now almost driving her mad with doubt.

Laurie Meredith could not repress a start of surprise when she appeared before him, she was so ghastly pale, and her large, black eyes seemed to fairly burn in her pale face. The contrast, too, of her white hair with her black eyes, and her black silk dress was startling, since he had seen her but a few days ago, when her abundant tresses had in them but a few scattering threads of gray.

He hastened to place a chair for her, and to express his regrets over her illness.

She accepted his courtesy with a slight melancholy bow, and as she sunk into the chair, said huskily:

"Be brief, if you please, as I am still suffering with my head."

So instead of approaching the subject in a roundabout way, as he had intended, he was compelled to blurt it out abruptly, while shrinking under the cold stare of supercilious surprise she fixed on his flushed face.

She listened in unmoved silence to his statement that he loved Flower, that his love was returned, and that he wished to marry her in a very short time and take her abroad with him.

When he ended she replied with a curt and decided refusal that stung his pride most bitterly.

But for the sake of his love he tried to be very patient, and courteous. He told her that he was of good birth, that his father was rich and indulgent.

"I can give you letters. I do not even ask you to take my word," he insisted.

"If you were a prince and heir to a throne, my answer would be the same," she said, coldly.

He looked at her in wonder.

"I can not understand you, Mrs. Fielding. Do you think that Flower is too young to marry?"

"No. At least, that has nothing to do with my refusal. I will tell you frankly, Mr. Meredith, what I mean, and that will save further discussion. I shall never permit either of my daughters to marry."

He was so stunned by astonishment that he could not speak for a moment; then he gasped out:

"Your reasons?"

"They are my own, and I do not choose to disclose them!" she haughtily replied.

"But you may change your mind some time, Mrs. Fielding. In the meantime, will you permit Flower to correspond with me while I am away?" he asked, feeling sure that she would not always cling to this preposterous resolution.

"I shall never change my mind, Mr. Meredith, and I can not consent to your request. And I desire that you hold no further communication with my—with Flower," rising as if to signify that the interview was closed.

His eyes flashed proudly, and he asked, almost bitterly:

"You will permit me to see Flower once more at least, and bid her good-bye?"

She hesitated a moment, and then said, condescendingly:

"Yes, you may see her, but only this once. Do not call again, as you will not be admitted. Remember also that you must not intrude on my daughters in their walks, or I shall confine them to the house. I will now send Flower to you, and you may tell her what I have said."