liked better.”

“I don’t think I shall do that.”

“You can’t tell.  And if you don’t, the chances are ten to one that he will.”

This little blow, which was intended to be severe, did not hit Isa at all hard.  That plan of a Rose Bradwardine she herself had proposed in good faith, thinking that she could endure such a termination to the affair without flinching.  She was probably wrong in this estimate of her power; but, nevertheless, her present object was his release from unhappiness and doubt, not her own.

“It might be so,” she said.

“Take my word for it, it would.  Look all around.  There was Adelaide Schropner,—but that was before your time, and you would not remember.”  Considering that Adelaide Schropner had been for many years a grandmother, it was probable that Isa would not remember.

“But, Uncle Hatto, you have not heard me.  I want to say something to you, if it will not take too much of your time.”  In answer to which, Uncle Hatto muttered something which was unheeded, to signify that Isa might speak.

“I also think that a long engagement is a foolish thing, and so does Herbert.”

“But he wants to marry at once.”

“Yes, he wants to marry—perhaps not at once, but soon.”

“And I suppose you have come to say that you want the same thing.”

Isa blushed ever so faintly as she commenced her answer.  “Yes, uncle, I do wish the same thing.  What he wishes, I wish.”

“Very likely,—very likely.”

“Don’t be scornful to me, uncle.  When two people love each other, it is natural that each should wish that which the other earnestly desires.”

“Oh, very natural, my dear, that you should wish to get married!”

“Uncle Hatto, I did not think that you would be unkind to me, though I knew that you would be stern.”

“Well, go on.  What have you to say?  I am not stern; but I have no doubt you will think me unkind.  People are always unkind who do not do what they are asked.”

“Papa says that Herbert Onslow is some day to become a partner in the bank.”

“That depends on certain circumstances.  Neither I nor your papa can say whether he will or no.”

But Isa went on as though she had not heard the last reply.  “I have come to ask you to admit him as a partner at once.”

“Ah, I supposed so;—just as you might ask me to give you a new ribbon.”

“But, uncle, I never did ask you to give me a new ribbon.  I never asked you to give me anything for myself; nor do I ask this for myself.”

“Do you think that if I could do it,—which of course I can’t,—I would not sooner do it for you, who are my own flesh and blood, than for him, who is a stranger?”

“Nay; he is no stranger.  He has sat at your desk and obeyed your orders for nearly four years.  Papa says that he has done well in the bank.”

“Humph!  If every clerk that does well,—pretty well, that is,—wanted a partnership, where should we be, my dear?  No, my dear, go home and tell him when you see him in the evening that all this must be at an end.  Men’s places in the world are not given away so easily as that.  They must either be earned or purchased.  Herbert Onslow has as yet done neither, and therefore he is not entitled to take a wife.  I should have been glad to have had a wife at his age,—at least I suppose I should, but at any rate I could not afford it.”

But Isa had by no means as yet done.  So far the interview had progressed exactly as she had anticipated.  She had never supposed it possible that her uncle would grant her so important a request as soon as she opened her mouth to ask it.  She had not for a moment expected that things would go so easily with her.  Indeed she had never expected that any success would attend her efforts; but, if any success were possible, the work which must achieve that success must now commence.  It was necessary that she should first state her request plainly before she began to urge it with such eloquence as she had at her command.

“I can understand what you say, Uncle Hatto.”

“I am glad of that, at any rate.”

“And I know that I have no right to ask you for anything.”

“I do not say that.  Anything in reason, that a girl like you should ask of her old uncle, I would give you.”

“I have no such reasonable request to make, uncle.  I have never wanted new ribbons from you or gay toys.  Even from my own mother I have not wanted them;—not wanted them faster than they seemed to come without any asking.”

“No, no; you have been a good girl.”

“I have been a happy girl; and quite happy with those I loved, and with what Providence had given me.  I had nothing to ask for.  But now I am no longer happy, nor can I be unless you do for me this which I ask of you.  I have wanted nothing till now, and now in my need I come to you.”

“And now you want a husband with a fortune!”

“No!” and that single word she spoke, not loudly, for her voice was low and soft, but with an accent which carried it sharply to his ear and to his brain.  And then she rose from her seat as she went on.  “Your scorn, uncle, is unjust,—unjust and untrue.  I have ever acted maidenly, as has become my mother’s daughter.”

“Yes, yes, yes;—I believe that.”

“And I can say more than that for myself.  My thoughts have been the same, nor have my wishes even, ever gone beyond them.  And when this young man came to me, telling me of his feelings, I gave him no answer till I had consulted my mother.”

“She should have bade you not to think of him.”

“Ah, you are not a mother, and cannot know.  Why should I not think of him when he was good and kind, honest and hardworking?  And then he had thought of me first.  Why should I not think of him?  Did not mamma listen to my father when he came to her?”

“But your father was forty years old, and had a business.”

“You gave it him, Uncle Hatto.  I have heard him say.”

“And therefore I am to do as much for you.  And then next year Agnes will come to me; and so before I die I shall see you all in want, with large families.  No, Isa; I will not scorn you, but this thing I cannot do.”

“But I have not told you all yet.  You say that I want a husband.”

“Well, well; I did not mean to say it harshly.”

“I do want—to be married.”  And here her courage failed her a little, and for a moment her eye fell to the ground.  “It is true, uncle.  He has asked me whether I could love him, and I have told him I could.  He has asked me whether I would be his wife, and I have given him a promise.  After that, must not his happiness be my happiness, and his misery my misery?  Am I not his wife already before God?”

“No, no,” said Uncle Hatto, loudly.

“Ah, but I am.  None feel the strength of the bonds but those who are themselves bound.  I know my duty to my father and mother, and with God’s help I will do it, but I am not the less bound to him.  Without their approval I will not stand with him at the altar; but not the less is my lot joined to his for this world.  Nothing could release me from that but his wish.”

“And he will wish it in a month or two.”

“Excuse me, Uncle Hatto, but in that I can only judge for myself as best I may.  He has loved me now for two years—”

“Psha!”

“And whether it be wise or foolish, I have sanctioned it.  I cannot now go back with honour, even if my own heart would let me.  His welfare must be my welfare, and his sorrow my sorrow.  Therefore I am bound to do for him anything that a girl may do for the man she loves; and, as I knew of no other resource, I come to you to help me.”

“And he, sitting out there, knows what you are saying.”

“Most certainly not.  He knows no more than that he has seen me enter this room.”

“I