"He, he told me--did you not say all this to him, all this and more? Did you not drive him from your presence and employ with bitter scorn, when two weeks ago he asked for your daughter's hand?" "_He_ ask for my daughter's hand! he, the ingrate! the--Florence, did you believe that he really possessed the base assurance to request your hand of me?" "Father! father! what does this mean? Did you not tell me on that very evening never to see him again--never to recognize him in the street, or even think of him! Did you not cast him forth from your home and employ because he told you of his love for me and of mine for him?" "Of your love for him, Florence Hurst!" There was something terrible in the voice of mingled astonishment and dismay with which this exclamation was made. "Father!" cried the poor girl, half rising from her seat, and falling back again pale and trembling, "father, why this astonishment? You knew that I loved him!" "Who told you that I did?" "_He_ told me, he, Herbert Jameson. It was for this you made him an outcast." "It is false, Florence, I never dreamed of this degradation!" said Mr. Hurst, in a voice that seemed like sound breaking up through cold marble. "Then why that command to myself--why was I never to see or hear from him again?" cried Florence, almost gasping for breath. "Because he is a dishonest man, a swindler--because I solemnly believe that he has been robbing me during the last three years, and squandering his stolen spoil at the gambling-table!" "Father--father--father!" The sharp anguish in which these words broke forth brought the distressed merchant to his feet. Florence, too, stood upright, and even through the dusk you might have seen the wild glitter of her eyes, the fierce heave of her bosom. "You believe, father, you only believe! should such things be said without proof--proof broad and clear as the open sunshine when it pours down brightest from heaven. I say to you, my father, Herbert Jameson is an honest, honorable man!" "It is well, Florence--it is well!" said Mr. Hurst, with stern and bitter emphasis. "You have doubted my justice, you distrust that which I have said. You are foolishly blind enough to think that this man _can_ love, does love you." "I know that he does!" said Florence with a sort of wild exultation. "I know that he loves me." "And would you, if I were to give my consent--could you become the wife of Herbert Jameson?" "Father, I could! I would!" "Then on this point be the issue between us," said Mr. Hurst, with calm and stern dignity. "Florence, I am about to send a note desiring this man to come once more under my roof," and he rang a bell for lights; "if within three hours I do not give you proof that he loves you only for the wealth that I can give--that he is every way despicable--I say that if within three hours I do not furnish this proof, clear, glaring, indisputable, then will I frankly and at once give my consent to your marriage."