“But—but—Uncle August, you do not understand; I love her as a man loves the woman whom he wishes to make his wife,” said Geoffrey, with a very pale face, for the die was cast now, and he waited the result with fear and trembling. “Humph! and this is your confession?” “Yes, sir; I hope you will not regard me as a viper that turns and stings the hand that nourishes it,” the young man pleaded, with emotion. August Huntress did not reply for a moment. He thoroughly comprehended the situation now, and a great sigh of relief came welling up from his deep chest, for he had imagined from Geoffrey’s grave looks and ominous words that he had got into some difficulty at college which might hamper him through the remainder of his course. But it was only a love affair, after all, and he had long ago surmised that some such result might follow the intimate association of these two who were so dear to him. His eyes began to twinkle as he regarded the handsome fellow, sitting there before him with downcast eyes and troubled countenance, and yet he knew that the struggle which had driven him to this confession must have been a severe one, and he appreciated, too, the sense of honor and the nobility which had also prompted it. “Have you told Gladys anything of this?” he asked. “No, sir; it was my duty to come to you first, for your approval or rejection of my suit. I could not forget that I am a nameless waif, whom your goodness alone has redeemed from a blighted life. I could not forget, either, the fact, that when I shall have finished my education I shall have nothing to offer her whom I love, save my heart, an empty hand, and a name that is mine only by adoption.” Mr. Huntress was touched by his frankness and honor. “I can vouch for the heart, Geoff,” he said; “it is large, and generous, and noble. Empty hands are no disgrace if they are honest and willing hands, backed by energy and a resolute spirit, both of which I know you possess. As for the name, it is above reproach, but not more so than the manly fellow upon whom I have bestowed it, and of whom I am very proud; I know he will never dishonor it.” “Thank you, Uncle August,” Geoffrey replied, with a suspicious tremor in his voice: “but heart, hands, name, and even life itself will not amount to much with me if I am denied the love I crave—the world would be nothing to me without Gladys.” “It would be rather dark to all of us without her; she has been the light of our home and the pride of our hearts for a good many years; and, Geoff, to speak the truth, I believe nothing would please me better than to have you two marry, if you love each other well enough.” Geoffrey looked up with a transfigured face. “Oh, Uncle August, do you mean that?” he cried.