“You mean Sir Charles?” said Mr. Brownlow. “I thought girls liked that sort of thing. He means it for a great compliment to you.” “Then I wish he would compliment somebody else,” said Sara; “I think it is very hard, papa. A girl lives at home with her father, and is very happy and doesn’t want any change; but any man that pleases--any tall creature with neither brains nor sense, nor any thing but a mustache--thinks he has a right to come and worry her; and people think she should be pleased. It is awfully hard. No woman ever attempts to treat Jack like that.” Mr. Brownlow smiled, but it was not so frankly as usual. “Are you really quite sure about this matter?” he said. “I wish you would think it over, my darling. He is not bright--but he’s a very good fellow in his way--stop a little. And you know I am only Brownlow the solicitor, and if any thing should happen to our money, all this position of ours in the county would be lost. Now Sir Charles could give you a better position--” “Oh, papa! could you ever bear to hear me called Lady Motherwell?” cried Sara--“young Lady Motherwell! I should hate myself and every body belonging to me. But look here; I have wanted to speak to you for a long time. If you were to lose your money, I don’t see why you should mind so very much. _I_ should not mind. We would go away to the country, and get a cottage somewhere, and be very comfortable. After all, money don’t matter so much. We could walk instead of driving, which is often far pleasanter, and do things for ourselves.” “What do you know about my money?” said Mr. Brownlow, with a bitter momentary pang. He thought something must have betrayed the true state of affairs to Sara, which would be an almost incredible addition to the calamity. “Well, not much,” said Sara, lightly; “but I know merchants and people are often losing money, and you have an office like a merchant. I should not mind _that_; but I do mind never being able to turn my head even at home in our very own house, without seeing that man with his horrid mustache.” “Poor Sir Charles!” said Mr. Brownlow, and the anxiety on his face lightened a little. She could not know any thing about it. It must be merely accidental, he thought. Then he lighted her candle for her, and kissed her soft cheek. “You said you would marry any one I asked you to marry,” he said, with a smile; but it was not a smile that went deep. Strangely enough he was a little anxious about the answer, as if he had really some plan in his mind. “And so I should, and never would hesitate,” said Sara, promptly, holding his hand, “but not Sir Charles, please, papa.” This was the easy way in which the girl played on what might possibly turn out to be the very verge of the precipice. CHAPTER XI. THE YOUNG PEOPLE.