“‘Beloved star!’ Thou art so near, and yet—so far! Oh, my dearest! Oh, Erminie! do you know—do you know what my trial is! To be with you every hour of the day, your betrothed husband, sharing the same home, sitting at the same fireside, mocked with the appearance of the closest intimacy, yet kept at the sternest distance! Oh, Erminie! I cannot bear it longer, love! The period of my probation must—it must be shortened! Say, love! shall I speak to your father once more? Shall I implore him to fix an early day for our union?” The color deepened on Erminie’s cheek; and she hesitated a few moments before she replied: “We are very happy now! we are together almost all the time. What more can we require? My dear father is very much opposed to our marriage taking place before two years. And why should we hurry him? Surely, surely you do not dream that in these two years I shall change toward you?” she suddenly inquired. “No, my angel, no! I dream nothing of you but to your honor! I know that you are truth itself! But I cannot wait two years to call you mine, my love! I must—I must have your consent to speak to your father and implore him to shorten the time of our betrothal.” “I was very happy,” said Erminie, thoughtfully, “but I cannot be so any longer if you are discontented, for your discontent would be mine. Speak to my dear father, if you will.” “Thanks, dearest, thanks! I will lose no time,” he said, and he pressed her to his bosom for a moment, and then hurried out of the room to look for Dr. Rosenthal. He found the Lutheran minister in his study, sitting in his easy-chair, enjoying his pipe, and enveloped in a cloud of aromatic smoke. “Ah! is it you, Eastworth? Sit down; take out your pipe—I know you carry it about you—and try some of this tobacco; it is prime,” said the doctor, cordially, pushing another easy-chair toward his guest, and setting his box of tobacco near to his hand. “Thanks,” said Eastworth, availing himself at once of all his old friend’s invitations, as the quickest method of conciliating him. There was silence for a moment, then Colonel Eastworth said abruptly: “Sir, I have come to speak to you about your daughter.” The old minister laid down his pipe and turned to the speaker. The name of his daughter was powerful enough, at any time, to bring him all the way back from the past and fix his attention on the present. “Yes; well, what of Erminie?” he inquired, anxiously. Colonel Eastworth reflected for a moment, and then plunged headlong into the subject.