“To get him to do it. That he knows, is what makes it so miserable. If he did not know he would not be to blame. He knows what it is and won't do it, and that makes him wretched--as it ought, thank God!” “You're a nice Christian. Thanking God for making a man miserable. Well.” “Yes,” answered Dawtie. George thought a little. “What would you have me persuade him to?” he asked, for he might hear something it would be useful to know. But Dawtie had no right and no inclination to tell him what she knew. “I only wish you would persuade him to do what he knows he ought to do,” she replied. CHAPTER XXVII. THE WATCH. George stayed with the laird a good while, and held a long, broken talk with him. When he went Alexa came. She thought her father seemed happier. George had put the cup away for him. Alexa sat with him that night. She knew nothing of such a precious thing being in the house--in the room with them. In the middle of the night, as she was arranging his pillows, the laird drew from under the bed-clothes, and held up to her, flashing in the light of the one candle, the jeweled watch. She stared. The old man was pleased at her surprise and evident admiration. She held out her hand for it. He gave it her. “That watch,” he said, “is believed to have belonged to Ninon de l'Enclos. It _may_, but I doubt it myself. It is well known she never took presents from her admirers, and she was too poor to have bought such a thing. Mme. de Maintenon, however, or some one of her lady-friends, might have given it her. It will be yours one day--that is, if you marry the man I should like you to marry.” “Dear father, do not talk of marrying. I have enough with you,” cried Alexa, and felt as if she hated George. “Unfortunately, you can not have me always,” returned her father. “I will say nothing more now, but I desire you to consider what I have said.” Alexa put the watch in his hand. “I trust you do not suppose,” she said, “that a house full of things like that would make any difference.” He looked up at her sharply. A house full--what did she know? It silenced him, and he lay thinking. Surely the delight of lovely things must be in every woman's heart. Was not the passion, developed or undeveloped, universal? Could a child of his _not_ care for such things? “Ah,” he said to himself, “she takes after her mother.” A wall seemed to rise between him and his daughter. Alas! alas! the things he loved and must one day yield would not be cherished by her. No tender regard would hover around them when he was gone. She would be no protecting divinity to them. God in heaven! she might--she would--he was sure she would sell them.