He's sure to
hold up his head and be as good a squire as any of 'em." This was a
very different tale;--a note altogether changed! It must not be
said that the difference of the tale and the change of the note
affected Mary's heart; but her stepmother's manner to her did
soften her. And then why should she regard herself or her own
feelings? Like others she had thought much of her own happiness,
had made herself the centre of her own circle, had, in her
imagination, built castles in the air and filled them according to
her fancy. But her fancies had been all shattered into fragments;
not a stone of her castles was standing; she had told herself
unconsciously that there was no longer a circle and no need for a
centre. That last half-hour which she had passed with Reginald
Morton on the road home had made quite sure that which had been
sure enough before. He was not altogether out of her reach,
thinking only of the new duties which were coming to him. She would
never walk with him again; never put herself in the way of
indulging some fragment of an illusory hope. She was nothing now,
nothing even to herself. Why should she not give herself and her
services to this young man if the young man chose to take her as
she was? It would be well that she should do something in the
world. Why should she not look after his house, and mend his
shirts, and reign over his poultry yard? In this way she would be
useful, and respected by all,--unless perhaps by the man she loved.
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