"Has Maisrie," said George Bethune, with slow and measured enunciation, and he regarded the young man from under his shaggy eyebrows, "has Maisrie intimated to you her wish for that—that arrangement?" "No," said Vincent, eagerly. "How could she? I thought I was bound to speak to you first; for of course she will do nothing without your approval. But don’t you think she has had enough of a wandering life—enough of precarious circumstances; and then if her heart says yes too——?" Well, if this venerable impostor had at last succeeded in entrapping a rich man’s son—in getting him to propose marriage to his granddaughter—he did not seem to be in a hurry to secure his prey. "Maisrie has said nothing?" George Bethune asked again, in that curiously impassive fashion. "No——" "Has expressed no wish?" "No—I have not spoken to her about this immediate proposal." "Then, until she has," said the old man, calmly, "I must refuse any consent of mine. I think you have described the whole situation very fairly—clearly and honestly, as I imagine; but I do not see any reason for departing from what I said to you before, that I would rather my granddaughter was not bound by any formal tie or pledge—much less by such a marriage as you propose. For one thing, she may have a future before her that she little dreams of. Of course, if her happiness were involved, if she came to me and said that only by such and such an arrangement could her peace of mind be secured, then I might alter my views: at present I see no cause to do so. You are both young: if you care for each other, you should be content to wait. Years are a valuable test. After all, according to your own showing, you are dependent on your father’s caprice: some angry objection on his part—and where would the fortunes of the young married couple be?" But Vincent was too impetuous to be easily discouraged. "Even then I should not be quite helpless," he urged. "And is my willingness to work to count for nothing? However, that is not the immediate question. Supposing Maisrie’s happiness _were_ concerned?—supposing she were a little tired of the uncertainty of her life?—supposing she were willing to trust herself to me—what then? Why, if she came to you, and admitted as much, I know you would consent. Is not that so?—I know it is so!—you would consent—for Maisrie’s sake!" The old man’s eyes were turned away now—fixed on the slumbering coals in the grate. "I had dreamed of other things," he said, almost to himself.