“Humph! humph! humph! I hope it will be a proper one, Miss Palmer. If you consent to marry Ronald Bruce, I will tell you what then will be your fate. It will be that of the woman I have just described to you. Ronald loves you _now_, or thinks he does. He will marry you if he can; but his love, such as it is, will not last—cannot last. He will tire of you in a few weeks or months at longest; he will then dislike you—perhaps hate you—because, by having accepted his first offer of marriage, you will come between him and his inheritance, as indeed you will have done; for I will never leave this place to my nephew except on the condition that he marries my niece; for those two are my only heirs, and I will not have the property divided. Should Ronald marry any other than Hermia I shall leave the estate to her. So you see, my dear girl, into what depths of ruin you will cast both Ronald and yourself by accepting him. He will be an impoverished, disappointed and regretful husband. You will be that most miserable of all women—a despised wife.” Em. uttered a little impulsive, half-suppressed cry and hid her face in her hands. But after a few moments she recovered herself, and with something of gentle dignity arose and stood before the old man. Resting one hand on the table, she raised her eyes to his, looked him steadily but modestly in the face and said: “I do not think that this would be the result of our marriage should Mr. Bruce renew his offer and I accept it. If I should ever marry, my husband should never despise me. Be sure of that. But, Commodore Bruce, have no fears of me. Set your heart at rest. I would never enter any family who were opposed to receiving me; nor, were I inclined to do so, would my father and mother consent; nor, finally, could I take any course against their will. To-morrow my father will come for me to go home and spend Sunday. I shall take leave of you and then depart, not to return.” She ceased to speak, and was about to go away when the words of the commodore arrested her steps. “Now I have hurt you, my child. I did not mean to do so. I beg your pardon, Em. Ah! it was very cruel to wound you.” “No—yes—no,” said the girl in some distress. Then raising her eyes to his, and seeing the pale, old, anxious face, her heart melted towards him. She lifted his withered hand and pressed it to her lips, turned and left the room. “She has the spring of a fine spirit under all her downy softness. I don’t wonder at poor Ronald. Upon my sacred word and honor I don’t! _What a pity!_” sighed the old commodore to himself. Meanwhile Em. fled to her attic chamber. And not until she had locked herself in did she give way to the storm of emotion that overwhelmed her. She threw herself, weeping, on the bed and wept long and bitterly. The summer gust of tears refreshed her, as a thunder gust refreshes nature. With a healthful reaction she felt better after it had passed.