“Yes,—the genuine. You must remember him,—he drove those handsome bays, and his mother sat at our table, and said Georgie was the most beautiful girl at Saratoga.” “Georgie better take him, then, by all means,—she is growing older every day,” was Mr. Burton’s reply, as he rattled his paper ominously, and glanced at the “stock” column. “But Georgie don’t want him,” Mrs. Burton rejoined, “and she does want some one else,—some one, too, who has given her every reason to believe he intended making her his wife, and who ought to do so.” Mr. Burton looked up inquiringly, and his wife continued: “I mean Roy Leighton. His name has been associated with Georgie’s for years, and at times he has been very devoted to her, and almost at the point of a proposal, then some interruption would occur to prevent it. His mother’s heart is set upon it, and so, I must confess, is mine; while Georgie’s,—well, the poor girl is actually sick with suspense and mortification, and I think it is time something was done.” Mrs. Burton was considerably heated by this time, and took a seat near her husband, who asked what she proposed doing. “Nothing myself, of course,—a woman’s lips are sealed; but you can and ought to move in the matter. As Georgie’s father, it is your right to ask what Roy’s intentions are, making Mr. Bigelow’s offer, of course, the reason for your questionings. You are going to the croquet party this afternoon,—you can, if you try, find an opportunity for speaking to Roy alone, and I want you to do so.” At first Mr. Burton swore he wouldn’t. Roy Leighton knew what he was about, and if he wanted Georgie he would say so without being nudged on the subject. It was no way to do, and he shouldn’t do it. This was his first reply; but after awhile, during which his spouse grew very earnest and eloquent, and red in the face, and called him “Freeman Burton,” he ceased to say he wouldn’t, and said instead, that “he’d think about it.” And he did think about it all the morning, and the more he thought the more averse he grew to it, and the more, too, he knew he would have to do it, or never again know a moment’s peace when under the same roof with his wife. “I wish to goodness I had staid in New York,—and I’ve half a mind to take the next train back,—upon my word I have; but then wife would follow me if I did, and hang on till I consented. She never gives up a thing she’s set her heart upon; and if she’s made up her mind that Roy must marry Georgie, he’s bound to do it, and I must be the ‘go-between.’ I believe I’ll drown myself!” The poor man fairly groaned as he finished his soliloquy, and glanced from the window toward the river winding its way down the valley. His peace of mind for that day was destroyed, and not even Maude’s blandishments had power to brighten him up as he sat in a brown study, wondering “what the deuce he should say to Roy, and how he should begin.”