“Father, listen to me! My engagement was a hasty thing, brought about Heaven only knows how, and now I will not commit a second blunder by allowing myself to be driven into a hasty marriage.” “Godfrey, my son!”—and now the colonel roused a little,—“one would think your heart was not in this marriage, which I desire so much!” There was no answer from Godfrey, and the colonel went on: “I trust you knew your own mind when you offered yourself to Alice, and that you have no thought of drawing back. Remember, that for many generations a Schuyler has never broken his word; they have all been men of honor, and my son must not be the first to disgrace us.” Godfrey was white now, even to his lips, and his voice shook as he replied: “You need not fear for me, I shall keep my word to Alice. The Schuylers will not be disgraced by me. And now, father, one question to you. The Schuylers, you say, were all men of honor, and I put it to your honor to answer me truly. Four years ago last spring, when I came home from Andover and found Gertie Westbrooke gone, I was terribly disappointed. That child,—she was one then,—had a powerful hold on me, and by her purity of principle and plain way of speaking to me was doing me untold good, and I wanted to see her again and hear what she had to say. But she was gone, and so I wrote to her, and gave the letter to _you_ to post just as I would have given you one for Bob. It may seem strange that I remember it so distinctly. But I do. You were going out with letters in your hand and I gave you that, but never heard from it afterward. After waiting awhile for an answer I wrote again from school with a like result, and then when I knew she was here I wrote again, and directed to your care. Do you know why neither of these letters ever reached her, for they did not? She told me so last night when I asked her why she did not reply.” He was looking steadily at his father, whose eyes were cast down as he replied: “My son, I have to beg your pardon there. It was not an honorable thing to do, though I did it for the best. I never sent the letter committed to my care, and I wrote to Miss ——, the preceptress, sending her a specimen of your writing, and asking her if any letter came to Gertie Westbrooke, directed in that hand, to withhold it from her and mail it back to me. She did so, and when your third and last arrived I kept it also, and have them now unopened and unread.” “And truly that was a very honorable thing for one to do who talks to _me_ of _honor_! May I ask why you did it?” Godfrey said, his young face flushing and his voice full of anger. “I did it to prevent possible trouble. I knew how much you were interested in the girl, and I did not wish to have her harmed.”