Never before had she spoken at such length, nor with an air so serious. Her mother looked at her with a half wondering admiration, and the banker's countenance showed a new-born pride in her--in himself, indeed--for nothing in his household was important unless it showed a light reflected from him; and now, in his daughter, he discovered a part of himself, a disposition to think. This thought was seditious, and there is virtue in even a rebellious strength, and it convinced him that henceforth he must address her reason rather than a feminine whim. He was proud of her, admitted it to himself and conveyed it in a look which he gave his wife; but he was not the less determined to carry his point. Sawyer was a man of affairs. His judgment was sure, his spirit adventurous. Figures were his playthings, and who could say that he was not to become one of the country's great financiers? Once he had made a bid against many competitors acquainted with the work, to build a bridge for the county. Sawyer's bid was the lowest. His friends said that the undertaking would ruin him; McElwin deplored the young man's rashness. But he built the bridge, made money on the speculation; and the first traffic across the new structure was a drove of Sawyer's mules, en route to a profitable market. "I am glad you have begun to think," he said, smiling at her. "I knew the time would come, and, as it has come, let me ask you a question. Did you request this Mr. Lyman to sign the petition?" "I mentioned it to him." "You did. That ought to have been sufficient. What did he say?" "He said that he would--under certain conditions." McElwin winced in memory of his and Sawyer's visit to Lyman. "Conditions? How does he dare enforce conditions? What were they?" "That I must avow my love for Zeb--Mr. Sawyer." "Well, is that all?" "All! Isn't it enough?" "You can do that, my daughter," Mrs. McElwin said meekly. "Yes, I could, if the time should ever come." "What time?" the banker asked. "The time when I can say that I love him." McElwin crossed his legs with a sudden flounce. "You put too serious an estimate upon love," he said. "You expect it to be the grand, over-mastering passion we read about. That was all well enough for the age of poetry, but this is the age of prose. You can go to that man and tell him that--" "That I have a Nineteenth century love for Mr. Sawyer," she interrupted. "Well, yes." "And he would laugh at me." "Laugh at you," he frowned. "No gentleman can laugh at a lady's distress." "But he might not regard it as distress. It might seem ridiculous to him." "Hump," he grunted. "Well, it's undignified, it is almost outrageous to be forced to do such a thing, but you must go to him. Your mother will go with you." "No, James," his wife gently protested, looking at him in mild appeal. "I don't really think I can muster the courage for so awkward an undertaking. Please leave me out."