the window, at a distance from me. He opened a desk; he took from it what looked like a memorandum- book. Of this book he studied a certain entry for several minutes.

“Miss Snowe,” said he, laying it down, “do you know my little girl’s age?”

“About eighteen, is it not, sir?”

“It seems so. This old pocket-book tells me she was born on the 5th of May, in the year 18—, eighteen years ago. It is strange; I had lost the just reckoning of her age. I thought of her as twelve—fourteen—an indefinite date; but she seemed a child.”

“She is about eighteen,” I repeated. “She is grown up; she will be no taller.”

“My little jewel!” said M. de Bassompierre, in a tone which penetrated like some of his daughter’s accents.

He sat very thoughtful.

“Sir, don’t grieve,” I said; for I knew his feelings, utterly unspoken as they were.

“She is the only pearl I have,” he said; “and now others will find out that she is pure and of price. They will covet her.”

I made no answer. Graham Bretton had dined with us that day; he had shone both in converse and looks. I know not what pride of bloom embellished his aspect and mellowed his intercourse. Under the stimulus of a high hope, something had unfolded in his whole manner which compelled attention. I think he had purposed on that day to indicate the origin of his endeavours and the aim of his ambition. M. de Bassompierre had found himself forced, in a manner, to descry the direction and catch the character of his homage. Slow in remarking, he was logical in reasoning. Having once seized the thread, it had guided him through a long labyrinth.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“She is upstairs.”

“What is she doing?”

“She is writing.”

“She writes, does she? Does she receive letters?”

“None but such as she can show me. And, sir, she—they have long wanted to consult you.”

“Pshaw! They don’t think of me, an old father! I am in the way.”

“Ah, M. de Bassompierre, not so; that can’t be! But Paulina must speak for herself; and Dr. Bretton, too, must be his own advocate.”

“It is a little late. Matters are advanced, it seems.”

“Sir, till you approve, nothing is done—only they love each other.”

“Only!” he echoed.

Invested by fate with the part of confidante and mediator, I was obliged to go on,—

“Hundreds of times has Dr. Bretton been on the point of appealing to you, sir; but, with all his high courage, he fears you mortally.”


  By PanEris using Melati.

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