“Forgive me, dear,” continued he, “for I would not willingly cause you sorrow, but I have a reason for speaking in this grave way.  Who is to fill the old arm-chair when I cannot occupy it?”

And he smiled somewhat grimly as he sought her eye, in which he could observe the most real of all nature’s evidences of emotion.

“What mean you, father?” she replied, with something like an effort to respond to his humour.

“Why, then, Rachel,” he said, “to be out with it, I want to know whether you have fixed your heart on any one.”

“Only upon you, dear father,” she replied, with a smile which struggled against her seriousness.

“Nay, Rachel,” continued he.  “It is no light matter, and I must have an answer.  I intend to leave you my whole fortune, but upon one condition, which is, that if Walter Grierson shall sue for your hand, you will consent to marry him.”

To this there was a reply given with an alacrity which showed how her heart pointed—­“Yes;” then, adding that wonderful little word “but,” which makes such havoc among our resolutions, she paused, while her eyes sought the ground.

“What ‘but’ can be here?” interjected the old man.  “Surely you do not mean to doubt whether he would consent?”

“And yet that is just my doubt,” she replied, as if she felt humiliated by the admission.

“Doubt!” cried the father, in rising wrath; “doubt, doubt if a beggar would consent to be made rich by marrying you!  Why, Rachel, dear, if the fellow were to breathe a sigh of hesitation, he would deserve to be a beggar with more holes than wholes in his gabardine, and too poor even to possess a wallet to carry his bones and crumbs.  Have you any reason for your strange statement?”

“No,” replied the girl, with a sigh.  “It is only my heart that speaks.”

“And the heart never lies,” said he sharply.  “But I shall see,” he muttered to himself, “whether a certain tongue in a certain head shall speak in the same way.”

“But would it not bring me down,” said she, “were he to think that he was forced by a promise?”

“A promise!” rejoined he; “why, so it would, my dear.  I see you are right.”  But then he thought he could sound him without putting any obligation upon him.  “And a pretty obligation it would be,” he continued, “for a young fellow cut off with a shilling to bind himself to consent to be the acceptor of two such gifts as a fine girl and a fortune.”

And Burgess David tried to laugh; but the effort was still that of a heavy heart, and, reclining his head upon the back of the chair, he relapsed into those thoughts which, as Age advances to the term where Hope throws down her lamp, press in and in upon the spirit.  Rachel glided away quietly, perhaps to think; and certainly she had something to think about.