“Yes, sir,” replied the man, and Mr. Gordon returned to his seat by the table. A few moments had elapsed when Frederick entered. His father did not appear to notice his entrance, and, after pausing awhile, the young man asked— “Did you send for me, sir?” “Yes,” was his father’s answer, as he pushed a chair toward him with his foot, and motioned him to be seated. “I have a few things to say to you, sir: I happened to be an eye-witness of the love-scene that took place in the woods, down yonder, this evening. No, I was no spy or eaves-dropper,” he continued, as the color flashed to Frederick’s face, and he half-rose from his chair: “You may as well keep cool, young man. I was passing near there, just as the girl was coming to her senses, and I could not well avoid seeing and hearing what passed. You were so taken up with her, that you had no ears for any one besides, else you must have heard me. Permit me to congratulate you,” he added, with a mocking smile, “upon enacting the lover most admirably. May I be allowed to inquire who was the fair damsel who played Juliet to your Romeo?” “Lily Grey, sir,” was the laconic reply. “Lily Grey! And who, pray, is _she_?” “She is a young lady from Massachusetts, I believe, who has been spending the last three months with Mr. and Mrs. Mason. I presume she is a niece of theirs, as she calls them uncle and aunt.” “Poor as a church mouse then, of course,” said Mr. Gordon, quickly. “Frederick, do you love this girl?” “Yes, sir.” “And have been foolish enough to tell her so, I conclude, as I had the pleasure of hearing the declaration a little while ago.” “Yes, sir.” “Well, sir, let me tell you, once for all, that this foolery must have an end. I can never receive Miss Lily Grey as my daughter-in-law.” “I have inherited so much of my father’s meek and docile disposition,” said the young man proudly, with an ironical smile curling his lip, “that I shall doubtless be lead as a lamb in this matter. Allow me to say, that in matrimonial affairs I intend to do as I choose.” Mr. Gordon must change his tactics. Frederick said rightly—he is too much like his father to be driven. There was silence between the two for many minutes, but they sat looking in each other’s eyes as if reading the soul there. Then Andrew Gordon rose, drew his chair nearer to his son’s, and taking his hand kindly in his own, said—