“I would submit to you, sir, respectfully, but very earnestly, that an engagement of two years will be intolerably tedious to me. I come to entreat you to shorten the period. There is really no reason why we should not be married at once. I love your daughter devotedly, and I am so blessed as to have won her affections. My means are ample, and I shall be only too happy to make any settlements upon my bride that you may please to name. My character and position, I hope you know, are unimpeachable.” “All that is true, Eastworth—quite true!” said the old doctor, taking up his pipe and putting it in his mouth, and puffing away leisurely. “Then, sir, let me hope that you will reconsider your decision, and allow the marriage to take place soon,” pleaded the colonel. “No, Eastworth. She is much too young to be married yet. Think of it!—she is not yet seventeen! Her youth is an objection to her marriage that cannot be set aside, Eastworth, by any agent except time. You must be patient, my friend.” Nor could further pleading move the old man. Colonel Eastworth rejoined Erminie in the drawing-room. She looked up inquiringly as he entered. “Your father is obdurate, my sweet love! I cannot win his consent to my wishes, upon any terms,” he said, with a profound sigh. “Then we must be patient. My dear father is very good to us in all other respects; in this also, perhaps, though we do not know it,” replied Erminie, gently. “It may be so, love,” said Eastworth. “And you know that if our engagement were to last ten years, or twenty, and if, in the meantime, you should travel to the uttermost ends of the earth, and I should never see or hear from you, I should still be true to you—yes! true as truth!” “I know it, my only love! And I shall soon put your truth to a terrible test!” “Put it to any test! to any!” exclaimed Erminie, rashly, in her great faith. CHAPTER XIX. ANOTHER LOVE CHASE. On the morning succeeding the conversation related at the close of the last chapter, Erminie was seated at work in her own room, and singing as she sewed, when the housemaid entered and laid a card before her. “‘Vittorio Corsoni,’ our Italian professor! Where is he, Catherine?” inquired Erminie, with her eyes on the bit of enameled pasteboard that bore the name she read. “I showed him into the drawing-room, miss; which he says he would very much like to see you for a few minutes, if so be you can do him the honor,” replied the girl. “Certainly, Catherine—our ex-master! I will go at once,” said the minister’s daughter, rising. Always dressed with exquisite neatness, Erminie had no occasion to keep her visitor waiting. She followed the maid down the stairs, and passed into the drawing-room.