The doctor had no wife; but he had an anxious mother, who, though she
would not for the world have been unkind to the poor girl, yet was very
anxious that she should be disposed of and out of her son's way. It is
true that the doctor was forty and Mary only eighteen,--but what then?
Matches of that kind were seen every day; and his heart was so soft to
the child that his mother never knew from one day to another what might
happen. She had naturally no doubt at all that Mary would seize the first
hand held out to her; and as time went on, held many an anxious
consultation with the vicar's wife on the subject. "You cannot have her
with you forever," she said. "She must know one time or another how she
is left, and that she must learn to do something for herself."

"Oh," said the vicar's wife, "how is she to be told? It is heart-rending
to look at her and to think,--nothing but luxury all her life, and now,
in a moment, destitution. I am very glad to have her with me: she is a
dear little thing, and so nice with the children. And if some good
man would only step in--"

The doctor's mother trembled; for that a good man should step in was
exactly what she feared. "That is a thing that can never be depended
upon," she said; "and marriages made out of compassion are just as bad as
mercenary marriages. Oh no, my dear Mrs. Bowyer, Mary has a great deal of
character. You should put more confidence in her than that. No doubt she
will be much cast down at first, but when she knows, she will rise to the
occasion and show what is in her."

"Poor little thing! what is in a girl of eighteen, and one that has lain
on the roses and fed on the lilies all her life? Oh, I could find it in
my heart to say a great deal about old Lady Mary that would not be