Instantly the whole manner of the merchant changed. A heavy frown settled upon his brow, and his eyes became angry in their expression. “Mr. Albertson,” he said, in a firm, resolute voice, “your presumption surprises me! Who are you? And what claims have you to the hand of my daughter?” “The claim of an honest man who loves your daughter,” replied Albertson. “Go, sir! Go!” exclaimed Townsend, losing all patience at this cool response, “and don’t dare to think of an alliance with my child! It shall never take place! Go, sir! Go!” And he waived his hand for the young man to retire. Albertson attempted to urge some considerations upon the excited merchant, but an order to leave the counting-room, followed by an insulting expression, caused him instantly to depart. An hour or two afterward, Eunice received the following brief note from her lover: “I have seen your father, and he has met my request with an angry refusal. Have I nothing to hope? You said his consent was indispensable. Are you still of that mind? Dear Eunice! shall the will of another prevent the union of our hearts? I feel that, upon every principle of right, this ought not to be. Write to me immediately, and oh! do not extinguish every light of hope. Let one at least burn, even if its rays be feeblest.” To this, the maiden, after taking time for reflection, replied: “I did not hope for a favorable issue to your application. My father looks, I fear, to wealth and social standing, more than to qualities of mind. As I said before, his consent is, for the present, indispensable. The will of another may prevent an external union, although it cannot prevent an union of our hearts. If your regard for me is deeply based; if you can have patience to wait long in hope of more favoring circumstances, then the light you speak of need not go out in your mind. ‘To patient faith, the prize is sure.’ Time works many changes. Have faith in time.” Albertson read these precious words over twice, and then pressing them to his lips, said, “Yes! I will have faith in time. I would be unworthy of that true heart were I to give way to impatience and doubt.” Eunice was sitting alone that evening, just after the twilight shadows had rendered all objects around her indistinct, when her father entered the room where she was sitting. She felt his presence like a weight upon her bosom. “Eunice! Who is this Albertson?” he asked, abruptly and sternly. Even from a child, Eunice had possessed great self-control and composure under agitating circumstances. But never, in her life, had she been so deeply disturbed as now, and it required the utmost effort of her will to keep from bursting into tears. She, however, remained externally calm, and said in a low, subdued voice: “Do you not know him?” “How should I know him, pray?” “He has been here frequently. I thought you had met him.”