“I don’t know who she belongs to, except her mother,” said Jack, growing very hot; and then he added, on the spur of the moment, “I dare say you think it’s not very wise--I don’t pretend it’s wise--I never supposed it was; but as for the difficulties, I am ready to face them. I don’t see that I can say any more.” “I did not express any opinion,” said Mr. Brownlow, coldly; “no--I don’t suppose wisdom has very much to do with it. But I should like to understand. Do you mean to say that every thing is settled? or do you only speak in hope?” “Yes, it is quite settled,” said Jack: in spite of himself this cold questioning had made a difference even in the sound of his voice. It all came before him again in its darker colors. The light seemed to steal out of the prospect before him moment by moment. His face burned in the dark; he was disgusted with himself for not having something to say; and gradually he grew into a state of feverish irritation at the stones which his father took the trouble to kick away, and the crunching of the gravel under his feet. “And you have not a penny in the world,” said Mr. Brownlow, in his dispassionate voice. “No,” said Jack, “I have not a penny in the world.” And then there was another pause. The very stars seemed to have gone in, not to look at his discomfiture, poor fellow! A cold little wind had sprung up, and went moaning out and in eerily among the trees; even old Betty at the lodge had gone to bed, and there was no light to be seen from her windows. The prospect was black, dreary, very chilling--nothing to be seen but the sky, over which clouds were stealing, and the tree-tops swaying wildly against them; and the sound of the steps on the gravel. Jack had uttered his last words with great firmness and even a touch of indignation; but there can be no doubt that heaviness was stealing over his heart. “If it had been any one but yourself who told me, Jack,” said his father, “I should not have believed it. You of all men in the world--I ought to beg your pardon for misjudging you. I thought you would think of your own pleasure rather than of any body’s comfort, and I was mistaken. I beg your pardon. I am glad to have to make you an apology like this.” “Thanks,” said Jack, curtly. It was complimentary, no doubt; but the compliment itself was not complimentary. I beg your pardon for thinking you a villain--that was how it sounded to his ears; and he was not flattered even by his escape. “But I can’t rejoice over the rest,” said Mr. Brownlow--“it is going against all your own principles, for one thing. You are very young--you have no call to marry for ten years at least--and of course if you wait ten years you will change your mind.” “I have not the least intention of waiting ten years,” said Jack. “Then perhaps you will be so good as to inform me what your intentions are,” said his father, with a little irony; “if you have thought at all on the subject it may be the easier way.”