“Love her? oh, Mr. Grahame, she has been the bright beaming star that has shone on my ocean course for many a long year.  I know not when I first began to love, but from my cousin Caroline’s wedding-day the thoughts of Lilla lingered with me, and gilded many a vision of domestic peace and love, and each time I looked on her bright face, and marked her kindling spirit, heard and responded inwardly to her animated voice, I felt that she was dearer still; and when again I saw her in her sorrow, and sought with Ellen to soothe and cheer her, oh, no one can know the pain it was to restrain the absorbing wish to ask her, if indeed one day she would be mine, but that was no time to speak of love.  Besides, I knew not if I had the means to offer her a comfortable home, I knew not how long I might be spared to linger near her; but now, when of both I am assured, wherefore should I hesitate longer?  With the title of captain, that for which I have so long pined, I am at liberty to retire on half-pay, till farther orders; the adopted son and acknowledged heir to my uncle, Lord Delmont, I have now enough to offer her my hand, without one remaining scruple.  You are silent.  Oh, Mr. Grahame, must I plead in vain?”

“And would you marry her, would you indeed take my child as your chosen bride?” faltered Grahame, deeply moved.  “Honoured, titled as you are, my poor, portionless Lilla is no meet bride for you.”

“Perish honours and title too, if they could deprive me of the gentle girl I love!” exclaimed the young captain, impetuously.  “Do not speak thus, Mr. Grahame.  In what was my lamented father better than yourself—­my mother than Lady Helen? and if she were in very truth my inferior in birth, the virtues and beauty of Lilla Grahame would do honour to the proudest peer of this proud land.”

“My boy, my gallant boy!” sobbed the agitated father, his irritability gone, dissolved, like the threatening cloud of a summer day beneath some genial sunbeam, and as he wrung Captain Fortescue’s hand again and again in his, the tears streamed like an infant’s down his cheek.

“Will I consent, will I give you my blessing?  Oh, to see you the husband of my poor child would be too, too much happiness, happiness wholly, utterly undeserved.  But, oh, Edward, can Mr. Hamilton, can Lord Delmont consent to your union with one, whose only brother is a disgraced, dishonoured outcast, whose father is a selfish, irritable misanthrope?”

“Can the misconduct of Cecil cast in the eyes of the just and good one shadow on the fair fame of his sister?  No, my dear sir; it is you who have looked somewhat unkindly and unjustly on the world, as when you mingle again with your friends, in company with your children, you will not fail, with your usual candour, to acknowledge.  A selfish, irritable misanthrope,” he added, archly smiling.  “You cannot terrify me, Mr. Grahame.  I know the charge is false, and I dread it not.”