“Yes, about the business,” replied Mr. Levinger, with a hard little laugh; “after so much sentiment it is quite refreshing to come to business, although unfortunately this has its sentimental side also. You must understand, Joan, that the parent whom you are so hard on, and whose agent I chanced to be in bygone years, left me more or less in a fiduciary position as regards yourself—that is to say, he entrusted me with a certain sum of money to be devoted to your education, and generally to your advancement in life, making the proviso that you were not to be brought up as a lady, since, rightly or wrongly, he did not think that this would conduce to your happiness. Well, I have strained the letter of my instructions, and you have had a kind of half-and-half education. Now I think that I should have done better to have held closer to them; for so far as I can judge, the result has been to make you dissatisfied with your position and surroundings. However, that is neither here nor there. You are now of age; the funds at my disposal are practically exhausted; and I desire to wind up my trust by settling you happily in life, if I can do so. You will wonder what I am driving at. I will tell you. I understand that a very worthy farmer, a tenant of mine, who is also a large freeholder—I mean Mr. Samuel Rock—wishes to make you his wife. Is this so?” “Yes, sir.” “Very well. Don’t think me rude; but I should be glad to know if you are inclined to fall in with his views.” “On the whole, sir,” answered Joan composedly, “I think that I would rather follow my mother’s example and walk over the cliff at high tide.” “That statement seems pretty comprehensive,” said Mr. Levinger, after a pause; “and, to be frank, I don’t see any way round it. I am to understand, then, that Mr. Rock is so distasteful to you that you decline to have anything to do with him?” “Absolutely, sir: I detest Mr. Rock, and I can scarcely conceive any circumstances under which I would consent to marry him.” “Well, Joan, I am sorry, because I think that the marriage would have been to your advantage; but this is a free country. Still, it is a pity—a great pity—especially, to be candid, as I have heard your name pretty roughly handled of late;—in a way, indeed, that is likely to bring disgrace upon it.” “You are forgetting, sir, that I have no name to disgrace. What I do, or leave undone, can matter to nobody. I have only myself to think of.” “Really this is a most unfortunate tone for any young woman to adopt; still, I did hope that, if you considered nobody else, you would at least consider your own reputation. Perhaps you know to what I allude?” “Yes, sir; I know.” “Might I ask you if there is any truth in it?”