“Tired of my work! Oh, if you knew how delightful my service has been to me!” he exclaimed; and then in the next breath added, “but I fear I shall never again inhabit Greenlands.” And then he made full confession of his offence. He told how this mad folly had grown upon him in the happy days of the previous year. “I was counting my chances as you drove up to me to-day,” he said, “little thinking I was so soon to see your daughter’s sweet face. I was fighting with despair as I sat by the mountain-road. Speak plainly, dear sir, you cannot say harder things to me than I have said to myself.” “Why should I say anything hard? It is no sin to love my daughter. I ought to have known that it was impossible to live near her, and refrain from loving her. But do not talk to me of despair. What is a young man’s love but a fancy which is blown to the end of the earth by the first blast of Fame’s mighty trumpet. My dear young friend, I am not afraid that you will break your heart, or, at least, that the heart-break will kill you. I broke my heart at your age. It is an affair of six weeks; and for a poet a broken heart is inspiration.” “Oh, sir, for God’s sake, do not trifle with me!” “My dear friend, I am telling you the truth, I thank you for your candour, and in return will be as candid. I admire and love you, almost as I could have loved a son. If you could give my daughter a secure position--a safe and certain home, however unpretending--I would be the last to oppose your suit. But you cannot do this. You are young, hopeful, ambitious. The world--as your poet says--is your oyster, which with your sword you’ll open. But the oyster is sometimes impenetrable. I have seen the brightest swords blunted. I am an old man and an exile; my sole possession in the form of _rentes viagères_. You would promise my child a home in the future. I cannot wait for the future. I am an old man, and I must see my darling provided with a safe shelter before I die, so that, when death crosses my threshold, I may be able to say, ‘Welcome, inevitable guest. The play is finished. _Vale et plaudite._” “God grant you may live to see your grandchildren’s children.” “I will not gainsay your prayer. But when it is a question of grandchildren, a man is bound to be doubly circumspect. What is the meaning of an imprudent marriage, of which the world talks so lightly? It is not my daughter only whom I doom to care and poverty, but how many unborn innocents do I devote to misfortune? Forgive me if, upon this subject, I seem hard and worldly. I would do much to prove my regard for you; but my child’s future is the one thing that I cannot afford to hazard.” “You are all goodness, sir,” replied Eustace, with the gentle gravity of resignation. “I scarcely hoped for a more favourable sentence.”