"We are old friends, aren't we, Michael?" he said. "I have known you from your birth. I am exceedingly glad to hear that you have formed an attachment to so excellent a girl as Florence. Now, my dear fellow, pray don't blush: who minds the words of an old soldier like myself? I was young once: I loved once. My Susie's mother and I married when we were very poor. But, God knows! there never was a happier union. The only sad thing about it--the only sad thing was, its brevity. God took my angel to Himself. But he left me Susie, and I am the last to complain. There's nothing, my dear young fellow, like roughing it a bit in the early years of marriage, provided, of course, there is true love; and you, Michael, could not be such a dog as to pretend to love a woman when you do not love her all the time. Ah--and here we are. See Florence; she has noticed us. A sweet girl, Michael--a sweet girl. I can see you afterwards, that is, if you wish it. I stand in the position of a father to Florence, for the time being, her own father having left us--gone to join the majority--ah, what a majority it is! Now you go right in. You will find her all alone. The best girl in the world, true as steel, afraid of nothing. God bless you, Michael." Certainly Michael Reid had not the faintest idea when he started on his walk that morning of going near the Grange. He knew perfectly well, however, that it was the day when Florence was prepared to give him her answer. He was uncomfortably aware of the fact. It had stayed with him in his dreams on the previous night, and disturbed him a good deal. He knew all about the Heathcotes' reverse of fortune--that was how his father chose to express it. The girls were, his father said, a pair of impostors. They had been palmed off on the people as heiresses. They did not own a penny in the world. As to their good looks--Brenda was, if anything, a plain girl, and Florence was just moderately good-looking. Of course, Michael must never give her a thought again. The Major had urged his son to leave Langdale; but something, he could not tell what, kept Michael on the spot. He wanted to see Florence once more, and yet he dreaded seeing her inexpressibly. Well, now he was caught--fairly caught by Colonel Arbuthnot, dragged to the house against his will. What a position for a man, a man who was terribly in debt and who required all the assistance that a rich wife could give him. Surely rich wives were to be had, although they might not be as taking as pretty Florence. There was no help for it, however; he could not possibly marry her. He had absolutely forgotten that remark of his, that he would love her and make her his wife if she was as poor as a church mouse.