It had all happened on the day on which Francis Tredethlyn accepted Mr. Hillary’s magnanimous offer, and allowed himself to be created a sleeping partner in the Australian house. It was only natural that on such a day Francis should dine at the Cedars; and it was only natural that Lionel Hillary should make a little speech about the young man, telling his daughter of the generosity of this noble-minded Cornishman, who had been something more than a son to him--a friend, a benefactor, a preserver. What praise could be loud enough for a man who would lend thirty thousand pounds without security? And then this noble-minded Cornishman, whose heart was like a great lump of tinder--only wanting the feeblest spark to kindle it into a blaze--burst out into a passionate declaration of his love. What was his fortune but so much dirt, which he was only too glad to fling under the feet of Miss Hillary? Would he not go out into the world to-morrow penniless, barefoot, a beggar, if by so doing he could add to her happiness? He asked a few such questions as these: and then cried out suddenly that he was a despicable wretch, and that he was ashamed of himself for saying all this, when he knew that Miss Hillary’s heart was given to another man. He would go, he said; she should never again be tormented by him. She should not be annoyed by so much as the mention of his name. After which passionate speech Mr. Tredethlyn grasped the merchants hand, and then made a rush towards the door. He would fain have suited the action to the word; he wanted to go away that moment, and hide himself for ever from Maude Hillary. But before he could reach the door Maude was by his side, with her hands clasped about his arm her face looking upward at his, and drowned with tears. “How good you are!” she cried. “Don’t go away; we cannot part from you like this. You have been so good to my father. Ah, how can we ever recompense so much devotion! If my esteem--my gratitude--can make you happy, they are yours,--they have long been yours. I renounce every other thought, every other duty. I can have no duty higher than this.” The last words were almost stifled on her lips, for Francis Tredethlyn caught her to his breast as passionately as in that last scene of the “Lady of Lyons.” “Maude, my love--my angel--you will renounce, for my sake--you--you--will be my own--my wife!” he gasped, incoherently. “No--no, I cannot accept such a sacrifice--I am not so mean, so selfish, as to----” But Mr. Hillary, hovering over his daughter and the generous-minded young Cornishman, would not allow Francis to finish this sentence. “My dear boy!” he exclaimed,--“my darling Maude! nothing upon earth could give me greater pleasure than this, because I know that it is for your mutual happiness. What joy can be deeper or purer than that of a father who knows that his child has won for herself the devoted affection of a good man?”