closely on her form; and its ambiguities are imposing as well as prudent. Poor mother must suffer greatly from the heat; but she never permits herself to complain of it; she even fans herself sparingly, as if she were still determined to be the cool and slender creature of thirty years ago. There is heroism in these little things, none the less because it gains no renown.
Our conversation led to no definite result. Mother wanted John to marry, and she shares the general infatuation regarding our cousin Sinfire; and yet I could perceive that her mind was not entirely at ease. The forces of tradition, of convention, of temperament, were working in her against her special and arbitrary affection for this strange young woman. Reason prompted her to distrust, or at least to wait and prove; while instinct, or something like that, urged blind acceptance. Between the two, my excellent parent was unwontedly perplexed.
"Lord Cedarcliffe is so impetuous, and so unused to restraint," she remarked. (She still calls him by the pet name he used to bear in the nursery, when she is especially moved about him. The Republic would be amused if they knew how many odd scraps of feudalism and monarchical tricks are to be picked up about this house.) "Perhaps he would not be so set upon this if Sinfire seemed more willing to meet his views. It's very odd, don't you think, that she should hesitate? She can't be sincere; and yet"
"It isn't so very odd," said I. "She has penetration, and she recognizes John's impetuosity as plainly as you and I do. I don't dispute that she wishes to marry him; but she wishes, also, to be sure that he loves her, outside of his impetuosity."
"John is incapable of a trivial attachment," returned mother, impressively.
"If he were capable of it. Cousin Sinfire is taking the best means to make him serious," I replied. "I don't doubt it will come out all right in the end,—on the assumption, of course, that their marriage is the right thing."
"Don't you think it is the right thing?" she asked, quickly.
"Well, if you don't think so, I advise you not to let them know it."
"It is true we know comparatively little about her," said mother, after a pause. "There is really nothing, except my poor brother's letter and her own account. But it would be absurd to doubt either. I should not think of such a thing."
That is to say, she does think of it. But she could not draw me into either encouraging her suspicions or opposing them. As a matter
