He threw the first rocket into Mark’s entrenchment; it was returned with a live shell, which exploded the instant it reached Wilton’s faery fabric, and demolished it with one fatal crash. “Well, Mark,” exclaimed the old man, as they went on, “pray what is the special, object which has brought you down to Harleydale post-haste from gay London--something important, of course?” Mark nodded with an air of one who is impatient to communicate some weighty affair. Old Wilton chuckled. “A wife, Mark, eh?” he said, in a light, jesting tone, simply because it was the most improbable thing that occurred to him. “Yes,” said Mark, with emphasis, surprised that his father should come to the point of their anticipated discussion without being, so far as he knew, prepared for it. At first Wilton laughed, for he accepted the answer as one returned in the same spirit as that in which he put the question. Then it struck him that there was a remarkable and decided emphasis in the tone of the affirmative which Mark had uttered. He gave an uneasy glance at his son’s features. He felt a cold perspiration steal slowly over him. His heart suddenly leaped, jumped, and ached so painfully that he stopped. What was coming? Mark walked on thoughtfully; presently he missed his father from his side. “Why do you pause?” he turned round and said; “you are not already tired--shall we go back?” Old Wilton waved his hand impatiently-- “I am not tired,” he said, sharply, but rather huskily. “We will go on--but--a-hem--but, I quite presume that you understand my question to you, Mark, was put jestingly?” “Jestingly!” echoed Mark. “Ah! but, father, I am very desirous that you should understand I replied in serious earnestness.” “Explain!” exclaimed Mr. Wilton, his visage contracting, and wearing that hard expression which so chilled Flora’s warm affection for him. “You remember the old house in Clerkenwell, where we lived in a very different state of things to this,” said Mark, and paused as he pointed around him. “Go on,” responded his father, coldly. “In that house”--he cleared his throat and raised his voice--“I say in that house, from whose burning ruins young Vivian saved my sister, your only daughter---saved, too, the document by which alone you were enabled to enter on the possession of this property and leap from destitution into prosperity--correct me if I mistake aught.” He paused again. Mr. Wilton maintained a grim silence. Mark proceeded-- “In that house there dwelt a young girl, a tenant of yours--saved also by Hal from the flames--you remember her, father, do you not?” Mr. Wilton bowed stiffly. “Ah! how would it be possible to forget her charming face, having once seen it?” cried Mark, ardently. “Proceed!” said Mr. Wilton, in a grating voice, with difficulty enunciating the word. “What more need I say, sir?--she is my choice!” returned Mark plumply. and with a firm decision of manner.