“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Damer, again. It often does strike an old gentleman as very odd that any man should fall in love with his daughter, whom he has not ceased to look upon as a child. The case is generally quite different with mothers. They seem to think that every young man must fall in love with their girls. “And have you said anything to Fanny about this?” asked Mr. Damer. “Yes, sir, I have her permission to speak to you.” “God bless my soul!” said Mr. Damer; and by this time they had arrived at Shepheard’s Hotel. “Oh, mamma,” said Fanny, as soon as she found herself alone with her mother that evening, “I have something that I must tell you.” “Oh, Fanny, don’t tell me anything to-night, for I am a great deal too tired to listen.” “But oh, mamma, pray;—you must listen to this; indeed you must.” And Fanny knelt down at her mother’s knee, and looked beseechingly up into her face. “What is it, Fanny? You know that all my bones are sore, and I am so tired that I am almost dead.” “Mamma, Mr. Ingram has—” “Has what, my dear? has he done anything wrong?” “No, mamma: but he has;—he has proposed to me.” And Fanny, bursting into tears, hid her face in her mother’s lap. And thus the story was told on both sides of the house. On the next day, as a matter of course, all the difficulties and dangers of such a marriage as that which was now projected were insisted on by both father and mother. It was improper; it would cause a severing of the family not to be thought of; it would be an alliance of a dangerous nature, and not at all calculated to insure happiness; and, in short, it was impossible. On that day, therefore, they all went to bed very unhappy. But on the next day, as was also a matter of course, seeing that there were no pecuniary difficulties, the mother and father were talked over, and Mr. Ingram was accepted as a son-in-law. It need hardly be said that the offer of a place in Mr. Damer’s boat was again made, and that on this occasion it was accepted without hesitation. There was an American Protestant clergyman resident in Cairo, with whom, among other persons, Miss Dawkins had become acquainted. Upon this gentleman or upon his wife Miss Dawkins called a few days after the journey to the Pyramid, and finding him in his study, thus performed her duty to her neighbour,— “You know your countryman Mr. Ingram, I think?” said she. “Oh, yes; very intimately.” “If you have any regard for him, Mr. Burton,” such was the gentleman’s name, “I think you should put him on his guard.” “On his guard against what?” said Mr. Burton with a serious air, for there was something serious in the threat of impending misfortune as conveyed by Miss Dawkins. “Why,” said she, “those Damers, I fear, are dangerous people.” “Do you mean that they will borrow money of him?” “Oh, no; not that, exactly; but they are clearly setting their cap at him.” “Setting their cap at him?”