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like sensible Jeannie, that in extreme cases the remedy was open to trial. I have no doubt that the law existed for these, and to prevent weak women being hardly dealt with. It strikes me that there was a certain manliness and honesty in the law, though, of course, it might be much abused.'

'Of course,' echoed Marianne, without having paid much attention to what her companion had said. 'Don't you think it would be dreadful, horrible, to marry without love, Iris, even if the man were not a high-handed sinner, such as the girl described ?'

Iris had never heard Marianne speak so seriously before, and even yet she was not sure that a jest might not lurk beneath the seriousness, till her cousin added in a tone of suppressed excitement :

I would not do it for all the world; I know it would be a terrible danger for me. It is another thing with you. I believe you would be good, and do your best under any circumstances. But I, Iris; did it never

strike you that

there was something of

granny in me?' Marianne broke off and

asked in a low tone with a slight shudder,

but looking Iris full in the face all the time, as if to surprise her answer.

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No, no, nothing at all,' said Iris, startled and shocked, 'except that it goes without saying we are both of her blood, and in some physical points-features, tones of voice, tricks of gesture, we may bear a resemblance to her, as doubtless we do to each other,' added Iris, seeking to widen the chain of relationship to which she was referring.

'Ah, I know better,' said Marianne, drawing a long breath. 'I am hot-blooded, impulsive, headstrong, as she has been. I, too, could be brought to stand at bay, and to break through every obstacle in the path of my will. I know I am a weaker woman than she is, but sometimes I think it is not only because hers is the stronger nature, but because I am really like granny, that she can turn and twist and make a tool of me. I see perfectly well what she is about all the time, how she is touching every sensitive spot in my composition, stirring me up and egging me on to be vain, heartless, and treacherous. But I cannot resist her—I defy myself to do it. It is the same as bringing fire to tinder. I kindle up in a blaze in a

moment, and become a puppet to be played off according to her pleasure. It is easy to guess what you will say, that I can strive, and watch, and pray to hold my own, but I am afraid I cannot. There is some sympathy between us. No, don't let us speak of it any longer, Iris, for even to allude to it in a whisper seems to make it a greater reality, and to render me more in her power.'

This impatient and, as it seemed, cowardly turning of Marianne's back on a cause for apprehension, with the avoidance of all present reflection and future resolution on the point, was a new practice to Iris Compton. She had faced each foe that stood in her path, whether or not she had been worsted in the contest.

But there was no room at this date for rational remonstrance with Marianne Dugdale. The moment her humour changed, which it was apt to do in the twinkling of an eye, she would put her small hands over her shell-like ears and call out pettishly she was not to be preached to, though she had just challenged and almost solicited the sermon. She would prefer to advance partially blind

folded to threatened destruction, rather than endure the sharp pain, acute self-reproach, and mental trouble of opening her eyes, counting the cost, and making a determined stand and an abiding choice as to what was to be her conduct and fate. At the same time, poor little square-shouldered Marianne was far less unstable by nature than from defective training and untoward circumstances.

CHAPTER XXXV.

A RAINY DAY IN PERILOUS QUARTERS.

THE next morning rose with such a raw, white Scotch mist or drizzling rain as to catch everybody in the throat worse than her cold had caught Lady Fermor, and to forbid preliminary strolls and seats on the Border moors. The two young men tried them on several occasions, only to return thoroughly soaked, to be sent to the lower regions, where, as Marianne Dugdale declared, the pedestrians were turned before a slow fire: a process which afforded no comfort to the imprisoned ladies in the rooms above. Even in fine weather these moors are bleak in August, for the bloom of the broom is past, and the first purple of the heather is growing brown, before the burst of September red ling which lends the final glow to the wilderness. It was hard to be assailed

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