“By no means,” answered Julian, looking down; “I have been known to your daughter for many years; and what I wished to say, respects both her happiness and my own.” “I must understand you,” said Bridgenorth, “even as carnal men understand each other on the matters of this world. You are attached to my daughter by the cords of love; I have long known this.” “You, Master Bridgenorth?” exclaimed Peveril--“_You_ have long known it?” “Yes, young man. Think you, that as the father of an only child, I could have suffered Alice Bridgenorth--the only living pledge of her who is now an angel in heaven--to have remained in this seclusion without the surest knowledge of all her material actions? I have, in person, seen more, both of her and of you, than you could be aware of; and when absent in the body, I had the means of maintaining the same superintendence. Young man, they say that such love as you entertain for my daughter teaches much subtilty; but believe not that it can overreach the affection which a widowed father bears to an only child.” “If,” said Julian, his heart beating thick and joyfully, “if you have known this intercourse so long, may I not hope that it has not met your disapprobation?” The Major paused for an instant, and then answered, “In some respects, certainly not. Had it done so--had there seemed aught on your side, or on my daughter’s, to have rendered your visits here dangerous to her, or displeasing to me, she had not been long the inhabitant of this solitude, or of this island. But be not so hasty as to presume, that all which you may desire in this matter can be either easily or speedily accomplished.” “I foresee, indeed, difficulties,” answered Julian; “but with your kind acquiescence, they are such as I trust to remove. My father is generous--my mother is candid and liberal. They loved you once; I trust they will love you again. I will be the mediator betwixt you--peace and harmony shall once more inhabit our neighbourhood, and----” Bridgenorth interrupted him with a grim smile; for such it seemed, as it passed over a face of deep melancholy. “My daughter well said, but short while past, that you were a dreamer of dreams--an architect of plans and hopes fantastic as the visions of the night. It is a great thing you ask of me;--the hand of my only child--the sum of my worldly substance, though that is but dross in comparison. You ask the key of the only fountain from which I may yet hope to drink one pleasant draught; you ask to be the sole and absolute keeper of my earthly happiness--and what have you offered, or what have you to offer in return, for the surrender you require of me?” “I am but too sensible,” said Peveril, abashed at his own hasty conclusions, “how difficult it may be.”