He would not tell her what was the matter; he insisted, as usual, that it was “nothing.” But evidently he had told his wife, for the poor lady’s eyes were red with weeping. Later on in the day Sylvia, chancing to answer the telephone, received a message from Uncle Mandeville in New Orleans, to the effect that he was “short,” and powerless to help. Then she took her mother aside and dragged the story from her. The local bank was in trouble, and had called some of the Major’s loans. The blow had almost killed him, and they were in terror as to what he might do to himself. Mrs. Castleman saw her daughter go white, and added, “Oh, if only you were not under the spell of that dreadful man!” “But what in the world has that to do with it?” demanded the girl. “I curse the day that you met him!” wailed the other; and then, as Sylvia repeated her question—“What else is it that keeps you from loving a good man, and being a help to your father in this dreadful crisis?” “Mamma!” exclaimed Sylvia. She had never expected to hear anything like this from the gentle “Miss Margaret.” “Mamma, I couldn’t stop the panic!” “You could stop it so far as your father is concerned,” was the answer. Sylvia said no more at this time. But later on, when Aunt Nannie came over, she heard the remark that there were a few fortunate persons who were not affected by panics; it had been the maxim of van Tuiver’s ancestors to invest in nothing but New York City real estate, and to live upon their incomes. It was possible to do this, even in New York, declared Mrs. Chilton, if one’s income was several millions a year. “Aunt Nannie,” said the girl, gravely, “if I promised to marry Mr. van Tuiver, could I ask him to lend Papa money?” Whereat the other laughed. “My dear niece, I assure you that to be the father of the future Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver would be an asset in the money market—an asset quite as good as a plantation.” § 19 Sylvia made up her mind that day; and as usual, she was both clear-sighted and honest about it. She would not deceive herself, and she would not deceive van Tuiver. She sent for the young millionaire, and taking him into another room than the library, shut the door. “Mr. van Tuiver,” she began, in a voice she tried hard to keep firm, “you have been begging me to marry you. You must know that I have been trying to make up my mind.” “Yes, Miss Sylvia?” he said, eagerly. “I loved Frank Shirley,” she continued. “Now I can never love again. But I know I shall have to marry. My people would be unhappy if I didn’t—so unhappy that I know I couldn’t bear it. You see, the person I really love is my father.” She hesitated again. “Yes, Miss Sylvia,” he repeated. She saw that his hands were trembling, and that he was gazing at her with feverish excitement.