marriage,--so far, so well; it saved my reputation from the charge of fortune-hunting. But, I tell you fairly, that if it had never come at all, I should be a prouder and a greater and a happier man than I have ever been, or ever can be, with all its advantages: it has been a millstone round my neck. And yet Ellinor has never breathed a word that could wound my pride. Would her daughter be as forbearing? Much as I love Fanny, I doubt if she has the great heart of her mother. You look incredulous,--naturally. Oh, you think I shall sacrifice my child's happiness to a politician's ambition. Folly of youth! Fanny would be wretched with you. She might not think so now; she would five years hence! Fanny will make an admirable duchess, countess, great lady; but wife to a man who owes all to her! No, no; don't dream it! I shall not sacrifice her happiness, depend on it. I speak plainly, as man to man, --man of the world to a man just entering it,--but still man to man! What say you?" "I will think over all you tell me. I know that you are speaking to me most generously,--as a father would. Now let me go, and may God keep you and yours!" "Go,--I return your blessing; go! I don't insult you now with offers of service; but remember, you have a right to command them,--in all ways, in all times. Stop! take this comfort away with you,--a sorry comfort now, a great one hereafter. In a position that might have moved anger, scorn, pity, you have made a barren-hearted man honor and admire you. You, a boy, have made me, with my gray hairs, think better of the whole world; tell your father that." I closed the door and stole out softly, softly. But when I got into the hall, Fanny suddenly opened the door of the breakfast parlor, and seemed, by her look, her gesture, to invite me in. Her face was very pale, and there were traces of tears on the heavy lids. I stood still a moment, and my heart beat violently. I then muttered something inarticulately, and, bowing low, hastened to the door. I thought, but my ears might deceive me, that I heard my name pronounced; but fortunately the tall porter started from his newspaper and his leathern chair, and the entrance stood open. I joined my father. "It's all over," said I, with a resolute smile. "And now, my dear father, I feel how grateful I should be for all that your lessons--your life--have taught me; for, believe me, I am not unhappy." CHAPTER IV. We came back to my father's house, and on the stairs we met my mother, whom Roland's grave looks and her Austin's strange absence had alarmed. My father quietly led the way to a little room which my mother had appropriated to Blanche and herself, and then, placing my hand in that which had helped his own steps from the stony path down the quiet vales of life, he said to me: "Nature gives you here the soother;" and so saying, he left the room.