Old Elihu Penrose’s eyebrows were bushy and thick, and, like his hair, were as white as though he had been in the mill of time, and a part of the flour had fallen upon him. When he was arguing upon religion or politics, and was about to ask some keen question that was likely to trip up the wits of the one with whom he was talking, he had a way of drawing these thick eyebrows together, until he had hidden all of his eyes but the grey twinkle within them. Though Tom did not raise his head, he felt that the old man drew his eyebrows together just in this manner, as he looked upon him where he sat. Not a word was spoken for some time, and the only sounds that broke the stillness of the room was the regular “creak, creak” of the rocker of the chair on which Elihu sat, and the sharp and deliberate “tick, tack” of the tall, old eight-day clock in the entry. Old Elihu broke the silence; he blew a thin thread of smoke toward the chimney, and then he said: “What is it thee wants to say to me Thomas?” And yet, I have a notion that he knew very well what it was that Tom was going to tell him. Then Tom looked up and gazed straight into the grey twinkle of Elihu’s eyes, hidden beneath their overhanging brows. “I—I love thy daughter,” said he, “and she’s promised to be my wife.” Elihu looked at Tom as though he would bore him through and through with the keenness of his gaze, and Tom looked steadfastly back again at him. He felt that Elihu was trying to look him down, and he drew upon all of his strength of spirit not to let his eyes waver for a moment. At last Elihu arose from his chair and knocked the ashes out his pipe into the fire-place. Then Tom stood up too, for he was not going to give the other the advantage that a standing man has in a talk over one that is seated. “Thomas,” began Elihu, breaking the silence again, and he thrust his hand into his breeches pocket, and began rattling the coppers therein. “Well?” said Tom. “I take it thee’s a reasonable man;—at least, thee ought to be, after all the knocking around that thee’s done.” This did not sound very promising for the talk that was to come. “I hope I’m a reasonable man,” said Tom. “Then I’ll speak to thee plainly, and without any beating about the bush;—I’m sorry to hear of this, and I wish that it might have been otherwise.” “Why?” “I should think that thee might know why, without putting me to the pains of telling thee. We’re a plain folk hereabouts, and the son’s followed in his father’s steps for a hundred and fifty years and more. I suppose that it’s an old-fashioned way that we have, but I like it. I’d rather that my daughter had chosen a man that had been contented with the ways of his father, and one that I had seen grow up under my eye, and that I might know that I could rely upon. I’ve seen little or nothing of thee, since thee ran away to sea, ten or twelve years ago.” “I don’t see why that should weigh against me.” “Don’t thee?”