dearer to him than all his horses, cattle, halls, and estates put together, and he loved even them to excess.  He loved all that he possessed; whatever was his was the best of the sort.  Such a love is apt to grow up in the breasts of men who have descended from a long line of proprietary ancestors, and with all its materialism it has in it possibilities of great good.  The sturdy, unflinching patriotism of the English people springs from this source.  The thought, “That which I possess is the best,” has beauty and use in it, though it leads men to treat other men, and, alas! women, as mere chattels.  All this was passing through my mind, and I forgot to answer Sir George’s question.

“Have you ever seen a woman more beautiful than Doll?” he again asked.

“I certainly have never seen one whose beauty may even be compared with Dorothy’s,” I answered.

“And she is young, too,” continued Sir George; “she is not yet nineteen.”

“That is very young,” I answered, not knowing what else to say.

“And she will be rich some day.  Very rich.  I am called ‘King of the Peak,’ you know, and there are not three estates in Derbyshire which, if combined, would equal mine.”

“That is true, cousin,” I answered, “and I rejoice in your good fortune.”

“Dorothy will have it all one of these days—­all, all,” continued my cousin, still looking at his feet.

After a long pause, during which Sir George took several libations from his bowl of toddy, he cleared his throat and said, “So Dorothy is the most beautiful girl and the richest heiress you know?”

“Indeed she is,” I responded, knowing full well what he was leading up to.  Realizing that in spite of me he would now speak his mind, I made no attempt to turn the current of the conversation.

After another long pause, and after several more draughts from the bowl, my old friend and would-be benefactor said:  “You may remember a little conversation between us when you were last at Haddon six or seven years ago, about—­about Dorothy?  You remember?”

I, of course, dared not pretend that I had forgotten.

“Yes, I remember,” I responded.

“What do you think of the proposition by this time?” asked Sir George.  “Dorothy and all she will inherit shall be yours—­”

“Stop, stop, Sir George!” I exclaimed.  “You do not know what you say.  No one but a prince or a great peer of the realm is worthy of aspiring to Dorothy’s hand.  When she is ready to marry you should take her to London court, where she can make her choice from among the nobles of our land.  There is not a marriageable duke or earl in England who would not eagerly seek the girl for a wife.  My dear cousin, your generosity overwhelms me, but it must not be thought of.  I am utterly unworthy of her in person, age, and position.  No! no!”

“But listen to me, Malcolm,” responded Sir George.  “Your modesty, which, in truth, I did not know you possessed, is pleasing to me; but I have reasons of my own for wishing that you should marry Dorothy.  I want my estates to remain in the Vernon name, and one day you or your children will make my house and my name noble.  You and Dorothy shall go to court, and between you—­damme! if you can’t win a dukedom, I am no prophet.  You would not object to change your faith, would you?”