She had long divined a young rival in her son's heart, and many a little pang of jealousy had traversed her own.

This morning, with a quickness which may seem remarkable to those who have not observed the watchful keenness of maternal love, she had seen that her rival had worked upon Henry to resign his declared intention of leaving Hillsborough.

Then she felt her way, and, in a moment, she had found the younger woman was the stronger.
She assumed as a matter of course, that this girl was in love with Henry (who would not be in love with him ?), and had hung, weeping, round his neck, when he called from Cairnhope to bid her farewell, and had made him promise to stay.

This was the mother's theory; wrong, but rational.
Then came the question, What should she do?
Fight against youth and nature?
Fight, unlikely to succeed, sure to irritate and disturb.

Risk any of that rare affection and confidence her son had always given her?
While her thoughts ran this way, seven o'clock came, and no Henry.