Clara walked across the floor to the library, and searched it diligently. Yet her father did not ask her what she wanted. She rattled gently the bones of a skeleton that hung in the corner. Still he did not look up. She played a tattoo on the skull of a Hottentot. The imperturbable doctor moved not. So she went up to him and laid her hand on the back of his chair, saying, “Have you a few minutes for me, father?” “Oh yes, my dear. Can you wait till I finish this article?” So she leaned upon his chair, gazing out of the window, and wishing herself back in her room. “Well, Clara, I am ready for you,” said her father at last, closing his book. But she seemed to have nothing ready to say, and began to pull to pieces a stray branch of woodbine that looked in at the window. “Why what is it, my child--do you want a new frock, or what?” “No, sir. I want--I came to ask you--why the truth is, father, that I want to be married, and beg you to tell me yes, when I ask you if I may.” “Want to be _married_!” cried the doctor, laughing immoderately. “Now I protest, of all the fooleries, that is the last I should have thought of the child’s asking for! Why, see here, dear--how long is it since you were romping about here, in short dresses, and short hair, and all that? Want to be married!” and he gazed at her with an incredulous smile. “I am nearly seventeen,” observed Clara, with considerable dignity. “Oh, indeed! I beg your pardon, madam!” exclaimed her father, in a tone of profound deference, at the same time seating her on his knee. “You want to be married. Now, what for, my little lady?” “Why, I think, without it, neither I nor one other can ever be happy.” “And who might that other individual be?” “I dare not tell you, for you are prejudiced against him, and will refuse me.” “Prejudiced, am I? What, do you opine, has prejudiced me?” “I think you adopted the opinions of another before seeing him, and so were not prepared to judge justly.” “Is it this Brentford, you mean?” “Yes, sir,” replied the girl, coloring deeply, and turning away her head. “And what do you suppose would make your happiness with him?” “We love each other!” “What is it that you love in him?” “Why, he is so noble, so generous, so honorable.” “Are you quite sure that is it, Clara? Or is it that he is so handsome, so genteel, so elegantly bearded, so devoted to you? But I will not keep you on the rack, my poor child. I will tell you at once, that it is not my wish that you should marry mortal man, be he who he may, till you come to years of discretion, which is not likely to be for four or five yet.