"Yes, indeed. Have you not often heard that young men may be infatuated? It has chanced that I have been the Cinderella for his eyes." "But thou art no princess, child." "And, therefore, am unfit to mate with this prince. I could not answer him at once, father. It was too sudden for me to find the words. And the place was hardly fitting. But I have found them now." "What words, my child?" "I will tell him with all respect and deference,--nay, I will tell him with some love, for I do love him,--that it will become him to look for his wife elsewhere." "Marion," said the Quaker, who was somewhat moved by those things which had altogether failed with the girl herself; "Marion, must it be so?" "Father, it must certainly be so." "And yet thou lovest him?" "Though I were dying for his love it must be so." "Why, my child, why? As far as I saw the young man he is good and gracious, of great promise, and like to be true-hearted." "Good, and gracious, and true-hearted! Oh, yes! And would you have it that I should bring such a one as that to sorrow,--perhaps to disgrace?" "Why to sorrow? Why to disgrace? Wouldst thou be more likely to disgrace a husband than one of those painted Jezebels who know no worship but that of their faded beauty? Thou hast not answered him, Marion?" "No, father. He is to come on Friday for my answer." "Think of it yet again, my child. Three days are no time for considering a matter of such moment. Bid him leave you for ten days further." "I am ready now," said Marion. "And yet thou lovest him! That is not true to nature, Marion. I would not bid thee take a man's hand because he is rich and great if thou couldst not give him thy heart in return. I would not have thee break any law of God or man for the glitter of gold or tinsel of rank. But the good things of this world, if they be come by honestly, are good. And the love of an honest man, if thou lovest him thyself in return, is not of the less worth because he stands high in wealth and in honour." "Shall I think nothing of him, father?" "Yea, verily; it will be thy duty to think of him, almost exclusively of him,--when thou shalt be his wife." "Then, father, shall I never think of him." "Wilt thou pay no heed to my words, so as to crave from him further time for thought?" "Not a moment. Father, you must not be angry with your child for this. My own feelings tell me true. My own heart, and my own heart alone, can dictate to me what I shall say to him. There are reasons--" "What reasons?" "There are reasons why my mother's daughter should not marry this man." Then there came a cloud across his brow, and he looked at her as though almost overcome by his anger. It seemed as though he strove to speak; but he sat for a while in silence. Then rising from his chair he left the room, and did not see her again that night.