ment.' The squire then told his son the whole story of Mary's birth, as it is known to the reader.
Frank sat silent, looking very blank; he also had, as had every Gresham, a great love for his pure blood. He had said to his mother that he hated money, that he hated the estate; but he would have been very slow to say, even in his warmest opposition to her, that he hated the roll of the family pedigree. He loved it dearly, though he seldom spoke of it;—as men of good family seldom do speak of it. It is one of those possessions which to have is sufficient. A man having it need not boast of what he has, or show it off before the world. But on that account he values it the more. He had regarded Mary as a cutting duly taken from the Ullathorne tree; not, indeed, as a grafting branch, full of flower, just separated from the parent stalk, but as being not a whit the less truly endowed with the pure sap of that venerable trunk. When, therefore, he heard her true history he sat awhile dismayed.
'It is a sad story,' said the father.
'Yes, sad enough,' said Frank, rising from his chair and standing with it before him, leaning on the back of it. 'Poor Mary poor Mary! She will have to learn it some day.'
'I fear so, Frank;' and then there was again a few moments' silence.
'To me, father, it is told too late. It can now have no effect on me. Indeed,' said he, sighing as he spoke, but still relieving himself by the very sigh, 'it could have had no effect had I heard it ever so soon.'
'I should have told you before,' said the father; 'certainly I ought to have done so.'
'It would have done no good,' said Frank. 'Ah, sir, tell me this: who were Miss Dunstable's parents? What was that fellow Moffat's family?'
This was perhaps cruel of Frank. The squire, however, made no answer to the question. 'I have thought it right to tell you,' said he. 'I leave all commentary to yourself. I need not tell you what your mother will think.'
'What did she think of Miss Dunstable's birth?' said he, again more bitterly than before. 'No, sir,' he continued, after a further pause. 'All that can make no change; none at any rate now. It can't make my love less, even if it could have prevented it. Nor, even, could it do so—which it can't the least, not in the least—but could it do so, it could not break my engagement. I am now engaged to Mary Thorne.'
And then he again repeated his question, asking for his father's advice under the present circumstances. The conversation was
