With a haughty frown, William replied, “You have my permission, sir, to propose as soon as you please.  I rather wish you would,” then taking his hat, he left the office, while Henry continued his soliloquy, as follows:—­“I wonder what the old folks would say to a penniless bride.  Wouldn’t mother and Rose raise a row?  I’d soon quiet the old woman, though, by threatening to tell that she was once a factory girl,—­yes, a factory girl.  But if dad smashes up I’ll have to work, for I haven’t brains enough to earn my living by my wit.  I guess on the whole, I’ll go and call on Ella, she’s handsome, and besides that, has the rhino too, but, Lord, how shallow!” and the young man broke the blade of his knife as he struck it into the hard wood table, by way of emphasizing his last words.

Ella chanced to be out, and as Henry was returning, he overtook Ida Selden and Mary Howard, who were taking their accustomed walk.  Since her conversation with William a weight seemed lifted from Mary’s spirits, and she now was happier far than she ever remembered of having been before.  She was a general favorite in Boston, where all of her acquaintances vied with each other in making her stay among them as agreeable as possible.  Her facilities for improvement, too, were great, and what was better than all the rest, George Moreland was to return much sooner than he at first intended.  While she was so happy herself, Mary could not find it in her heart to be uncourteous to Henry, and her manner towards him that morning was so kind and affable that it completely upset him; and when he parted with her at Mr. Selden’s gate, his mind was quite made up to offer her his heart and hand.

“I shall have to work,” thought he, as he entered his room to decide upon the best means by which to make his intentions known.  “I shall have to work, I know, but for her sake I’d do any thing.”

There was a bottle of Madeira standing upon the table and as he announced his determination of “doing any thing for the sake of Mary Howard,” his eye fell upon his favorite beverage.  A deep blush mounted to his brow, and a fierce struggle between his love for Mary and his love for the wine-cup ensued.  The former conquered, and seizing the bottle he hurled it against the marble fire jamb, exclaiming, “I’ll be a man, a sober man, and never shall the light of Mary’s eyes grow dim with tears wept for a drunken husband!”

Henry was growing eloquent, and lest the inspiration should leave him, he sat down and wrote to Mary, on paper what he could not tell her face to face.  Had there been a lingering doubt of her acceptance, he would undoubtedly have wasted at least a dozen sheets of the tiny gilt-edged paper, but as it was, one would suffice, for she would not scrutinize his handwriting,—­she would not count the blots, or mark the omission of punctuating pauses.  She would almost say yes before she read it.  So the letter, which contained a sincere apology for his uncivil treatment of her in former years, and an ardent declaration of love for her now, was written sealed, and directed, and then there was a gentle rap upon the door.  Jenny wished to come in for a book which was lying upon the table.