Dorothy knew the object of this call, and when her father came into the parlor she withdrew, full of sweet alarm, and left the two together. A tender glance, a soft rustling of pretty garments, and Elliott knew that he and her father were alone. He had scarcely taken his chair, when he began: “Mr. Carr, I have come upon the most sacred and important duty of my life.” “Draw your chair closer, I cannot see you well,” said Mr. Carr. “I am growing old and my sight is failing me.” And the way his voice faded into silence was typical of what he had said. Elliott obeying his request, continued: “I have had the honor of being received in this house for some time--nearly two years now, and I hope the topic on which I am about to speak will not surprise you.” “Is it about Dorothy?” “It is. You evidently anticipate what I would say, though you cannot realize my hopes and fears. I love her truly, Mr. Carr, and I want to make her my wife.” “I knew it would come. But why not a little later?” he said, pathetically. It was so like a cry of pain, this appeal, that it made Elliott’s heart ache and hushed him into silence. After a little, Mr. Carr said, solemnly: “Go on!” “I know, after seeing you together from day to day, that between you and her there is an affection so strong, so closely allied to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it has few parallels. I know that mingled with the love and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there is yet in her heart all the love and reliance of childhood itself. When she is clinging to you the reliance of baby, girl and woman in one is upon you. All this I have known since first I met you in your home life.” With an air of perfect patience the old man remained mute, keeping his eyes cast down as though, in his habit of passive endurance, it was all one to him if it never came his turn to speak. “Feeling that,” Elliott went on, “I have waited as long as it is in the nature of man to do. I have felt, and even now feel, that perhaps to interpose my love between you and her is to touch this hallowed association with something not so good as itself, but my life is empty without her, and I must know now if you will entrust her to my care.” The old man’s breathing was a little quickened as he asked, mournfully: “How could I do without her? What would become of me?” “Do without her?” Elliott repeated. “I do not mean to stand between you two--to separate you. I only seek to share with her her love for you, and to be as faithful always as she has been; to add to hers a son’s affection and care. I have no other thought in my heart but to double with Dorothy her privileges as your child, companion, friend. If I harbored any thought of separating her from you, I could not now touch this honored hand.” He laid his own upon the wrinkled one as he spoke.