“Oh, if that is all,” said Mr. Ogilvie with a smile, “I have Rory always, you know. The little pickle is for ever on my hands. He likes me better than the weemen, because I spoil him more, my wife says.” Having said this with effusion, the good man awoke once more to the fact that his audience was not with him, and grew dully red. “I am entirely at your service now,” he said; “would it be anything about the wheat? Your grieve is, no doubt, a very trustworthy man, but I would not leave your fields longer uncut if I was you. There is no sun now to do them any good.” “Thanks, very much,” said Fred, “it was not about the wheat----” “Or perhaps the state of the woods? There will be a good deal of pruning required, but it will be safest to have the factor over, and do nothing but what he approves.” “It was not about the woods. It was an entirely personal question. Perhaps another day would be more appropriate. I--have lost the thread of what I was going to say.” “Dear me,” said the good man, “that’s a pity. Is there nothing that I can suggest, I wonder, to bring it back to your mind?” He looked so honestly solicitous to know what the difficulty was, that Fred’s irritation was stayed. An embarrassment of another kind took possession of him. “Mr. Ogilvie,” he said, “I don’t know why I should have come to you, for indeed I have no authority. I have come to ask you for--what I am sure you will not give, unless I have another consent first. It is about--your daughter that I want to speak.” Mr. Ogilvie opened his eyes a little and raised himself in his seat. “Ay!” he said, “and what will it be about Effie?” He had observed nothing, seeing his mind was but little occupied with Effie. To be sure, his wife had worried him with talk about this young fellow, but he had long accustomed himself to hear a great deal that his wife said without paying any attention. He had an understanding that there could be only one way in which Fred Dirom could have anything to say to him about his daughter: but still, though he had heard a good deal of talk on the subject, it was a surprise. “Sir,” said Fred, collecting himself, “I have loved her since the first time I saw her. I want to know whether I have your permission to speak to Miss Ogilvie--to tell her----” Poor Fred was very truly and sincerely in love. It was horrible to him to have to discourse on the subject and speak these words which he should have breathed into Effie’s ear to this dull old gentleman. So strange a travesty of the scene which he had so often tenderly figured to himself filled him with confusion, and took from him all power of expressing himself. “This is very important, Mr. Dirom,” said Effie’s father, straightening himself out. “It is very important to me,” cried the young man; “all my hopes are involved in it, my happiness for life.”