“Well, Mr. Beecher,” said she, at length, “I _do_ think you owe me a little frankness; short as our acquaintance has been, I, at least, have talked in all the freedom of old friendship. Pray show me that I have not been indiscreet.” “Hang me, if I know what to say or do!” cried Beecher, in dire perplexity. “If I were to tell you why your father hurried away from Brussels, _he_ 'd bring me to book very soon, I promise you.” “I do not ask that,” interrupted she, eagerly. “It is upon the other point my interest is most engaged.” He looked blankly at her, for he really did not catch to what she alluded. “I want you to tell me, in one word, who are the Davises? Who are we? If we are not recognizable by that high world you have told me of, who, then, are our equals? Remember that by an honest answer to my question you give guidance and direction to my future life. Do not shrink from fear of giving me pain,--there is no such pain as uncertainty; so be frank.” Beecher covered his face with his hands to think over his reply. He did not dare to look at her, so fearful was he of her reading his very embarrassment. “I will spare you, sir,” said she, smiling half superciliously; “but if you bad known me a little longer or a little better, you had seen how needless all this excessive caution on your part I have more of what you call 'pluck' than you give me credit for.” “No, by Jove! that you have n't,” cried Beecher; “you have more real courage than all the men I ever knew.” “Show me, then, that you are not deficient in the quality, and give me a plain answer to a plain question. Who are we?” “I have just told you,” said Beecher, whose confusion now made him stammer and stutter at every word,--“I have just told you that your father never spoke to me about his relations. I really don't know his county, nor anything about his family.” “Then it only remains to ask, What are we? or, in easier words, Has my father any calling or profession? Come, sir, so much you can certainly tell me.” “Your father was a captain in a West India regiment, and, when I met him first, he was a man about town,--went to all the races, made his bets, won and lost, like the rest of us; always popular,--knew everybody.” “A 'sporting character,' in short,--is n't that the name newspapers give it?” said she, with a malicious twinkle of the eye. “By Jove! how you hit a thing off at once!” exclaimed Beecher, in honest ecstasy at her shrewdness. “So, then, I am at the end of the riddle at last,” said she, musingly, as she arose and walked the room in deep meditation. “Far better to have told me so many a year ago; far better to have let me conform to this station when I might have done so easily and without a pang!” A bitter sigh escaped her at the last word, and Beecher arose and joined her. “I hope you are not displeased with me, my dear Miss Davis,” said he, with a trembling voice; “I don't know what I'd not rather suffer than offend you.”