The father looked very seriously into the fire for a considerable time, and was silent; he then drew his breath lengthily, tapped the table a little with his fingers, and exclaimed—­“A month! well, the time will pass, and, as we must wait, why we must, that’s all.”

Matters lay in this state until the third day before the expiration of the appointed time, when Margaret, having received from Art secret intelligence of his return, hastened to a spot agreed upon between them, that they might consult each other upon what ought to be done under circumstances so critical.

After the usual preface to such tender discussions, Art listened with a good deal of anxiety, but without the slightest doubt of her firmness and attachment, to an account of the promise she had given her father.

“Well, but, Margaret darlin’,” said he, “what will happen if they refuse?”

“Surely, you know it is too late for them to refuse now; arn’t we as good as married—­didn’t we pass the Hand Promise—­isn’t our troth plighted?”

“I know that, but suppose they should still refuse, then what’s to be done? what are you and I to do?”

“I must lave that to you, Art,” she replied archly.

“And it couldn’t be in better hands, Margaret; if they refuse their consent, there’s nothing for it but a regular runaway, and that will settle it.”

“You must think I’m very fond of you,” she added playfully, “and I suppose you do, too.”

“Margaret,” said Art, and his face became instantly overshadowed with seriousness and care, “the day may come when I’ll feel how necessary you will be to guide and support me.”

She looked quickly into his eyes, and saw that his mind appeared disturbed and gloomy.

“My dear Art,” she asked, “what is the meaning of your words, and why is there such sadness in your face?”

“There ought not to be sadness in it,” he said, “when I’m sure of you—­you will be my guardian angel may be yet.”

“Art, have you any particular meanin’ in what you say?”

“I’ll tell you all,” said he, “when we are married.”

Margaret was generous-minded, and, as the reader may yet acknowledge, heroic; there was all the boldness and bravery of innocence about her, and she could scarcely help attributing Art’s last words to some fact connected with his feelings, or, perhaps, to circumstances which his generosity prevented him from disclosing.  A thought struck her—­

“Art,” said she, “the sooner this is settled the better; as it is, if you’ll be guided by me, we won’t let the sun set upon it; walk up with me to my father’s house, come in, and in the name of God, we’ll leave nothing unknown to him.  He is a hard man, but he has a heart, and he is better a thousand times than he is reported.  I know it.”

“Come,” said Art, “let us go; he may be richer, but there’s the blood, and the honesty, and good name of the Maguires against his wealth—­”