Several interviews took place afterwards between Alice and Henry Woodward; and after each interview her parents sought her opinion of him, and desired to know whether she was beginning to think more favorably of him than she had hitherto done.  Still, however, came the same reply.  Every interview only increased her repugnance to the match, and her antipathy to the man.  At length she consented to allow him one last interview—­the last, she asserted, which she would ever afford him on the subject, and he accordingly presented himself to know her final determination.  Not that from what came out from their former conversations he had any grounds, as a reasonable man, to expect a change of opinion on her part; but as the property was his object, he resolved to leave nothing undone to overcome her prejudice against him if he could.  They were, accordingly, left in the drawing-room to discuss the matter as best they might, but with a hope on the part of her parents that, knowing, as she did, how earnestly their hearts were fixed upon her marriage with him, she might, if only for their sakes, renounce her foolish antipathy, ard be prevailed upon, by his ardor and his eloquence, to consent at last.

“Well, Miss Goodwin,” said he, when they were left together, “this I understand, and what is more, I fear, is to be my day of doom.  Heaven grant that it may be a favorable one, for I am badly prepared to see my hopes blasted, and my affection for you spurned!  My happiness, my dear Miss Goodwin—­my happiness for life depends upon the result of this interview.  I know—­but I should not say so—­for in this instance I must be guided by hearsay—­well, I know from hearsay that your heart is kind and affectionate.  Now I believe this; for who can look upon your face and doubt it?  Believing this, then, how can you, when you know that the happiness of a man who loves you beyond the power of language to express, is at stake, depends upon your will—­how can you, I say, refuse to make that individual—­who appreciated all your virtues, as I do—­who feels the influence of your extraordinary beauty, as I do—­who contemplates your future happiness as the great object of his life, as I do—­how can you, I say, refuse to make that man happy?”

“Mr. Woodward,” she said, “I will not reply to your arguments; I simply wish to ask you, Are you a gentleman?—­in other words, a man of integrity and principle?”

“Do you doubt me, Miss Goodwin?” he inquired, as if he felt somewhat hurt.

“It is very difficult, Mr. Woodward,” she replied, “to know the heart; I request, however, a direct and a serious answer, for I can assure you that I am about to place the deepest possible confidence in your faith and honor.”

“O,” he exclaimed, “that is sufficient; in such a case I feel bound to respect your confidence as sacred; do not hesitate to confide in me.  Let me perish a thousand times sooner than abuse such a trust.  Speak out, Miss Goodwin.”