“That’s all.  Perhaps you have saved up the amount from your pin money?  Or, if you have been a little extravagant, and spent it all, why, then, perhaps you can get it from Mr. Chiffield this morning?”

The daughter laughed bitterly again.  “I tell you, father,” said she, “that this man is the meanest creature that walks OB two legs.  He has not spent fifty dollars on both of us, during our absence.  As for me, I have never got a cent from him, though I have dropped a thousand hints about new bonnets, dresses, and jewelry.”

“Gracious heavens!” cried Mr. Whedell, turning pale “But then,” he added, with an effort to laugh, “Mr. Chiffield is a business man, and was an old bachelor.  He knows nothing of women’s wants.  It must be your mission to teach him what they are.”

“Pooh!” said the daughter; “I don’t believe he has got any money.”

“Don’t talk so, my child.  You put me in a cold sweat.”

“Anyhow, I examined his pocket, last night, when he was asleep in the cars, and found only five dollars there.”

Mr. Whedell’s jaw dropped.  “Oh, no! it can’t be,” said he, at length.  “Mr. Chiffield must be a rich man.  You remember his fine horses at Saratoga and Newport.  You remember how much his society was courted by mammas with disposable daughters.  They never patronize poor young men.  Their instinct in finding out rich ones is unerring.  And furthermore, Mr. Chiffield is a member of a firm twenty years old, who are marked ’A No. 1’ on the books of a mercantile agency, that makes it a business to pry into other people’s affairs.  I paid ten dollars for the information, only a month ago.  He must be rich!  He must be rich!” Mr. Whedell repeated it twice, as if the repetition put the question of Chiffield’s opulence beyond a doubt.  “Ha! there goes that dreadful bell again!”

“What you say may be true, but I don’t believe a word of it, till I have the proofs,” replied the daughter, who seemed to delight in taking a gloomy view of her case.  “Why—­will you believe it?—­I can’t get him even to talk about engaging a house in New York.  He always dodges the subject, somehow.  Upon my word, I think he expects to quarter on you for the balance of his life.  That would be rich!”

Mr. Whedell raised his eyebrows, and emitted a doleful whistle.  Reflecting, he said: 

“You may misjudge him.  Perhaps he doesn’t like to disturb Love’s young dream, by looking into the future.  That’s all—­I’m sure of it.”

“Humbug!” ejaculated Mrs. Chiffield.

“Poor thing!” said her father, tenderly.  “There—­cheer up.  Depend upon it, that you have got a rich husband, who will take all our troubles off our shoulders.  Stay here, and I will go up stairs and sound him.”

Mr. Whedell proceeded to the apartment where his son-in-law was shut up, and found that individual in a deep fit of meditation.

“Thinking—­and so soon after marriage?” said Mr. Whedell, with a charming smile.