Perhaps now that the question of his future home was settled, Fanny was less averse to his entering into the lumber business, which she knew to be very profitable. She said nothing more against it, only complimented him with a sigh on being at liberty to choose his own residence. “You should be very happy,” she said. “But I am not at liberty,” protested Elwell; “nor am I very happy.” “Why not?” inquired Miss Fanny, knowing perfectly well what was to follow. “Why are you not at liberty?” “You know why,” replied Elwell, taking possession of her willing hand, and speaking very softly. “You know it is because I love you, and because I fear that I can never win your love in return.” Fanny blushed and simpered. “Tell me, Fanny, dearest Fanny,” he cried passionately, “am I too presumptuous? Can I hope?” Fanny looked at him without speaking; but it was evident that she did not consider him too presumptuous, and that he might hope. Elwell, with one arm around her waist, and getting up a very fair amount of enthusiasm, protested his love, spoke feelingly of his lone condition, and despairingly of his prospects in life without her. “Dear, dear Fanny,” he concluded, “I know I am not worthy of you, but I love you, and I want your love in return. You do love me a little, do you not?” “A little perhaps,” said Fanny archly. “Is that enough?” “Say that you will be my wife,” he replied rapturously, “and that will be enough. More than I deserve.” Fanny murmured: “Ask papa.” She knew that was the proper answer, for the society heroines always used it. And then Elwell clasped her in his arms, and swore he was the happiest man on earth. And after Fanny had run, blushing and palpitating, from the room, he started for the mill, to communicate his great happiness to his expected father-in-law. Strange that the memory of that other love-making should obtrude itself on him now. And stranger still, that, for all his protestations a moment ago, he was not happy. Why should he think of _her_ now? She had forgotten him long ago, no doubt; and why should the memory of her arise to trouble him now? With this question still unsolved, he stopped at one of the numerous saloons and drank a glass of brandy. Somewhat farther on, he stopped again for the same purpose; probably it was ineffectual, for he muttered a curse on the haunting memory as he strode on to the mill. “Mr. Morain,” he said, going into Pat’s private office, and speaking very rapidly, “I love your daughter, and I think she loves me, and I have come to ask your consent to our marriage.” Pat looked up and grinned. “I’m sorry for you, my boy,” he said. “I did not expect this when I brought you from Chicago.” “Do I understand that you refuse?” inquired Elwell, drawing himself up.