deeply. It made him angry.

"Mother, you have no right to say that, and to speak as though I
were failing in my duty towards you," he returned indignantly; "it
is not fair--all my life I have tried to please you, and to carry
out your wishes."

"I am not complaining of you, Malcolm," she replied quietly; "your
own conscience is accusing you, not your mother. Would you have me
suppress the truth or tell you a lie? Do you think any mother could
listen unmoved to what you have told me just now--that you intend to
leave my roof, that my only son finds his home so uncongenial, and
his life here so irksome, that he is forced to quit it?"

"Mother, you are making things worse and worse," returned Malcolm
passionately; "you are putting matters in a wrong light. Will you
listen to me a moment?"

"Have I ever refused to listen to you, my son?" and a softer and
more motherly expression came into the gray eyes.

"No, you have always been kind," he replied; but there was a slight
quiver in his voice. "Mother, it is not my fault--at least I hope
not--that we think so differently on most subjects. I am nearly
eight-and-twenty, and at that age a man is bound to do the best for
himself."

"I hoped you would have married before this, Malcolm."

"There is no question of marrying at present," he returned in a