“And you ask my sister to expose herself to such a future?” she said. “I am at a loss to understand you, sir.” “My dear madam, misery is, unfortunately, peculiar to no state of life. I love your sister, and she is good enough to love me. Such being the case, if she prefer misery with me to misery without me, I can only say that I share her taste, and will do my best to make her as little miserable as fate may permit.” “If your efforts prove as weak as your arguments, Dr. Richards, that ‘best’ will be a very poor one. ‘Misery without you!’ Why, I will give Alice one year, just one, in America, or six months in Paris, to forget you, and be as happy as a queen.” “I have always heard,” said Dr. Richards, coolly, “that good Americans go to Paris when they die, so perhaps you may be right.” “You mean she will never forget you while she lives?” asked the lady scornfully. “I mean that if you _can_ make her forget me, you are quite welcome to try.” “Ah! this is coming to the point, indeed. I am glad to find you so sensible. So you will not oppose her going abroad with us?” “I shall not oppose anything that Miss Randolph wishes.” The lady frowned, knowing well in what direction those wishes tended; but, before she could answer, the silken curtain was gently moved by the hand of a young girl, whose appearance filled Frederick Richards’s blue eyes with the light of anything but misery. She was about eighteen, of medium height, and slender, with the unconscious grace of a gazelle. Gazelle-like, too, were the large, brown, trustful eyes, her only really beautiful feature, though the brown abundance of her hair, the delicately roseate cheeks and scarlet lips, made her very charming, at least in one pair of eyes. But to us who are present in the spirit, dear reader, at this interview, the most noticeable thing about Alice Randolph is that, despite the shy grace of every movement, and the childlike innocence of the face, we read at once that she will not quail before any pain the future may hold in store for her. Suffer she will; blench or falter, she will not. She did not speak as she entered the room, but went quietly to Dr. Richards’s side, looked for one instant into his face, and laid her hand in his. Certainly they seemed well matched, for he also was silent as he held fast the hand she had given him. Then his firm lips curved into a triumphant smile. “Well, Mrs. Randolph?” he said. The lady’s face flushed again, rather unbecomingly. “There is only this to be said,” she cried angrily, “Alice, by her father’s will, cannot marry without my husband’s consent, or she forfeits every penny she has in the world. If you marry a beggar”— “You forget, my dear madam; at twenty-five she becomes her own mistress.” “Ah? you have read the will? That accounts for your prophecies of misery.”