“I was so surprised by the news,” said Mr. Vanstone, “and so staggered by the sight of old Clare’s sharp nose in my house, that I didn’t much notice.  Now you remind me of it—­yes.  I don’t think Frank took kindly to his own good luck; not kindly at all.”

“Do you wonder at that, papa?”

“Yes, my dear; I do, rather.”

“Don’t you think it’s hard to be sent away for five years, to make your fortune among hateful savages, and lose sight of your friends at home for all that long time?  Don’t you think Frank will miss us sadly?  Don’t you, papa?—­don’t you?”

“Gently, Magdalen!  I’m a little too old for those long arms of yours to throttle me in fun.—­You’re right, my love.  Nothing in this world without a drawback.  Frank will miss his friends in England:  there’s no denying that.”

“You always liked Frank.  And Frank always liked you.”

“Yes, yes—­a good fellow; a quiet, good fellow.  Frank and I have always got on smoothly together.”

“You have got on like father and son, haven’t you?”

“Certainly, my dear.”

“Perhaps you will think it harder on him when he has gone than you think it now?”

“Likely enough, Magdalen; I don’t say no.”

“Perhaps you will wish he had stopped in England?  Why shouldn’t he stop in England, and do as well as if he went to China?”

“My dear! he has no prospects in England.  I wish he had, for his own sake.  I wish the lad well, with all my heart.”

“May I wish him well too, papa—­with all my heart?”

“Certainly, my love—­your old playfellow—­why not?  What’s the matter?  God bless my soul, what is the girl crying about?  One would think Frank was transported for life.  You goose!  You know, as well as I do, he is going to China to make his fortune.”

“He doesn’t want to make his fortune—­he might do much better.”

“The deuce he might!  How, I should like to know?”

“I’m afraid to tell you.  I’m afraid you’ll laugh at me.  Will you promise not to laugh at me?”

“Anything to please you, my dear.  Yes:  I promise.  Now, then, out with it!  How might Frank do better?”

“He might marry Me.”

If the summer scene which then spread before Mr. Vanstone’s eyes had suddenly changed to a dreary winter view—­if the trees had lost all their leaves, and the green fields had turned white with snow in an instant—­his face could hardly have expressed greater amazement than it displayed when his daughter’s faltering voice spoke those four last words.  He tried to look at her—­but she steadily refused him the opportunity:  she kept her face hidden over his shoulder.  Was she in earnest?  His cheek, still wet with her tears, answered for her.  There was a long pause of silence; she waited—­with unaccustomed patience, she waited for him to speak.  He roused himself, and spoke these words only:  “You surprise me, Magdalen; you surprise me more than I can say.”