"I must tell you, sir," he continued, "that I did all I could to persuade my father to help Wilmot in this business; but my prayers and entreaties had been poured forth entirely without effect. I, however, took an opportunity of seeing Harriet, and assuring her that my affection was based upon no selfish motive, but that her father's misfortunes endeared _her_ more than ever to me. My father viewed matters in quite a different light, and spoke to me openly of the impossibility of my marrying a girl without a penny. I remonstrated with him on the cruelty, injustice, and dishonour of such conduct; but he cut me very short by observing that '_his money was his own—he had made it by his industry—he could leave it to whom he chose—and that if I insisted upon marrying Harriet Wilmot I need not darken his threshold afterwards_.' I replied that I was resolved to consult my own inclinations, and also to do honour to my vows and promises towards Harriet." "You acted in a generous manner," observed Markham; "although you opposed the wishes of your own father." "I had no secrets from Harriet," said Smithers; "and I assured her that if she would espouse a man who had nothing but his honest name and exertions to depend upon, I was ready to make her mine. She answered me, with tears in her eyes, that she could never consent to be the cause of marring all my prospects in life, and that, much as she loved me, she would release me from my vows. I wept in concert with her;—for I was not _then_ hard-hearted, sir,—nor had my countenance become impressed with that brutal severity which I know—I feel, it has long, long worn." "As the countenance is more or less the index of the soul," said Markham, "so will yours resume all its former serenity of expression."