In the course of that very evening they introduced the subject to her, with that natural confidence which resulted from their foregone conclusions upon it.

“Alley,” said her mother, “I hope you’re in good spirits this evening.”

“Indifferent enough, mamma; my spirits, you know, are not naturally good.”

“And why should they not?” said her mother; “what on earth have you to trouble you?”

“O, mamma,” she exclaimed, “you don’t know how often I miss my sister;—­at night I think I see her, and she looks pale and melancholy, and full of sorrow—­just as she did when she felt that her hope of life was gone forever.  O, how willingly—­how joyfully—­would I return her fortune, and if I had ten times as much of my own, along with it, if it could only bring her back to me again!”

“Well, you know, my darling, that can’t be done; but cheer up; I have good news for you—­news that I am sure will delight you.”

“But I don’t stand in need of any good news, mamma.”

This simple reply proved an unexpected capsize to her mother, who knew not how to proceed; but, in the moment of her embarrassment, looked to her husband for assistance.

“My dear Alice,” said her father, “the fact is this—­you have achieved a conquest, and there has been a proposal of marriage made for you.”

Alice instantly suspected the individual from whom the proposal came, and turned pale as death.

“That does not cheer my spirits, then, papa.”

“That may be, my dear Alice,” replied her father; “but, in the opinion of your mother and me, it ought.”

“From what quarter has it come, papa, may I ask?  I am living very lonely and retired here, you know.”

“The proposal, then, my dear child, has come from Henry Woodward, this day; and what will surprise you more, through his mother, too—­who has been of late such an inveterate enemy to our family.  So far as I have seen of Henry himself, he is everything I could wish for a son-in-law.”

“But you have seen very little of him, papa.”

“What I have seen of him has pleased me very much, Alice.”

“How strange,” said she musingly, “that father and daughter should draw such different conclusions from the same premises.  The very thought of that young man sinks the heart within me.  I beg, once for all, that you will never mention his name to me on this subject, and in this light, again.  It is not that I hate him—­I trust I hate nobody—­but I feel an antipathy against him; and what is more, I feel a kind of terror when I even think of him; and an oppression, for which I cannot account, whilst I am in his society.”

“This is very strange, Alice,” replied her father; “and, I am afraid, rather foolish, too.  There is nothing in his face, person, manner, or conversation that, in my opinion, is not calculated to attract any young woman in his own rank of life—­at least, I think so.”