"
"Poor mother!" sighed the sister. "I am grateful she is spared
_this_."
"Don't think that she doesn't know it!" cried Lydia. "If 'Liza
approved, mother does, and she is glad of her child's happiness."
"Her child--yes, her child," taunted the sister. "Child! child!
Yes, and what of the _child_ you will probably mother?"
The crimson swept painfully down the young girl's face, but she
braved it out.
"Yes," she stammered, "a child, perhaps a _son_, a son of mine,
who, poor boy, can never inherit his father's title."
"And why not, pray?" remarked her sister.
"Because the female line of lineage will be broken," explained the
girl. "He _should_ marry someone else, so that the family title
could follow the family name. His father and mother have
practically cast him off because of me. _Don't_ you see? Can't you
understand that I am only an untitled commoner to his people? I am
only a white girl."
"_Only_ a white girl!" repeated the sister, sarcastically. "Do you
mean to tell me that you believe these wretched Indians don't want
him to marry you? _You_, a _Bestman_, and an English girl?
Nonsense, Lydia! You are talking utter nonsense." But the sister's
voice weakened, nevertheless.
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