Too frightened to make a further attempt to move, I looked at him as he drew up a chair similar to my own, which creaked under his weight when he sat down in it. The afternoon being hot, and my veranda lacking air, which was one of the reasons why it was left to me, he mopped his brow with the violet handkerchief, on which an enormous monogram was embroidered in white. I divined his reluctance to begin not only from his long hesitation, but from the renewed contortion of his face. His hand went up to the left cheek as if to hold it in place, though with no success in the effort. When, at last, he spoke there was a stillness in his utterance suggestive of an affection extending now to the lips or the tongue. "I want you to know how much I appreciate the help you've given to Mrs. Brokenshire during her--her"--he had a difficulty in finding the right word--"during her indisposition," he finished, rather weakly. "I did no more than I was glad to do," I responded, as weakly as he. "Exactly; and yet I can't allow such timely aid to go unrewarded." I was alarmed. Grasping the arms of the chair, I braced myself. "If you mean money, sir--" "No; I mean more than money." He, too, braced himself. "I--I withdraw my opposition to your marriage with my son." The immediate change in my consciousness was in the nature of a dissolving view. The veranda faded away, and the hillside wood. Once more I saw the imaginary dining-room, and myself in a smart little dinner gown seating the guests; once more I saw the white-enameled nursery, and myself in a lace peignoir leaning over the bassinet. As in previous visions of the kind, Hugh was a mere shadow in the background, secondary to the home and the baby. Secondary to the home and the baby was the fact that my object was accomplished and that my enemy had come to his knees. Indeed, I felt no particular elation from that element in the case; no special sense of victory. Like so many realized ambitions, it seemed a matter of course, now that it had come. Nevertheless, it seemed to me that for my own sake and for the sake of the future I must have a more definite expression of surrender than he had yet given me. I remembered that Mrs. Brokenshire had said she would help me, and could imagine how. I summoned up everything within me that would rank as force of character, speaking quietly. "I should be sorry, sir, to have you come to this decision against your better judgment." "If you'll be kind enough to accept the fact," he said, sharply, "we can leave my manner of reaching it out of the discussion." In spite of the tone I rallied my resources. "I don't want to be presumptuous, sir; but if I'm to enter your family I should like to feel sure that you'll receive me whole-heartedly." "My dear young lady, isn't it assurance enough that I receive you at all? When I bring myself to that--" "Oh, please don't think I can't appreciate the sacrifice." "Then what more is to be said?"