“Everything works well thus far,” thought Mr. Thornton; “but I wish it was over,” and with a gloomy, forbidding face, he walked the floor, wondering how he should approach Mildred, and feeling glad that the Judge at least was out-of-the-way. “I’d rather stir up a whole menagerie of wild beasts than that old man,” he said to himself, “though I don’t apprehend much trouble from him either, for of course he’d take sides with his so-called son-in-law sooner than with a nameless girl. I wonder how long it takes to read a love-letter?” “Supper, sir,” cried the colored waiter, and thinking this as good a way of killing time as any, Mr. Thornton found his way to the dining-room. But he was too excited to eat, and forcing down a cup of tea he started for Beechwood, the road to which was a familiar one, for years before he had traversed it often in quest of his young girl-wife. Now it was another Mildred he sought, and ringing the bell he inquired “if Miss Howell was in?” “Down to Hepsy’s. I’ll go after her,” said Luce, at the same time showing him into the drawing-room and asking his name. “Mr. Thornton,” was the reply, and hurrying off, Luce met Mildred coming up the garden walk. “Mr. Thornton returned so soon!” she exclaimed, and without waiting to hear Luce’s explanation that it was not Mr. Lawrence, but an old, sour-looking man, she sprang swiftly forward. “I wonder why he sent the letter if he intended coming himself?” she thought; “but I am so glad he’s here,” and she stole, before going to the parlor, up to her room to smooth her hair and take a look in the glass. She might have spared herself the trouble, however, for the cold, haughty man, waiting impatiently her coming, cared nothing for her hair, nothing for her beautiful face, and when he heard her light step in the hall he arose, and purposely stood with his back toward the door and his eyes fixed upon the portrait of her who, in that room, had been made his bride. “Why, it isn’t Lawrence. It’s his father!” dropped involuntarily from Mildred’s lips, and blushing like a guilty thing, she stopped upon the threshold, half trembling with fear as the cold gray eyes left the portrait and were fixed upon herself. “So you thought it was Lawrence,” he said, bowing rather stiffly, and offering her his hand. “I conclude then that I am a less welcome visitor. Sit down by me, Miss Howell,” he continued, “I am here to talk with you, and as time hastens I may as well come to the point at once. You have just received a letter from my son?” “Yes, sir,” Mildred answered faintly. “And in that letter he asked you to be his wife?” Mr. Thornton went on in the same hard, dry tone, as if it were nothing to him that he was cruelly torturing the young girl at his side. “He asked you to be his wife, I say. May I, as his father, know what answer you intend to give?” The answer was in Mildred’s tears, which now gushed forth plenteously. Assuming a gentler tone, Mr. Thornton continued: