Such was the haughty interrogation.  Ralph was confounded.

“My pretensions, sir?—­The hand of Edith!—­Do I hear you right, uncle?  Do you really mean what you say?”

“My words are as I have said them.  They are sufficiently explicit.  You need not misunderstand them.  What, I ask, are your pretensions to the hand of my daughter, and how is it that you have so far forgotten yourself as thus to abuse my confidence, stealing into the affections of my child?”

“Uncle, I have abused no confidence, and will not submit to any charge that would dishonor me.  What I have done has been done openly, before all eyes, and without resort to cunning or contrivance.  I must do myself the justice to believe that you knew all this without the necessity of my speech, and even while your lips spoke the contrary.”

“You are bold, Ralph, and seem to have forgotten that you are yet but a mere boy.  You forget your years and mine.”

“No, sir—­pardon me when I so speak—­but it is you who have forgotten them.  Was it well to speak as you have spoken?” proudly replied the youth.

“Ralph, you have forgotten much, or have yet to be taught many things.  You may not have violated confidence, but—­”

“I have not violated confidence!” was the abrupt and somewhat impetuous response, “and will not have it spoken of in that manner.  It is not true that I have abused any trust, and the assertion which I make shall not therefore be understood as a mere possibility.”

The uncle was something astounded by the almost fierce manner of his nephew; but the only other effect of this expression was simply, while it diminished his own testiness of manner in his speeches, to add something to the severity of their character.  He knew the indomitable spirit of the youth, and his pride was enlisted in the desire for its overthrow.

“You are yet to learn, Ralph Colleton, I perceive, the difference and distance between yourself and my daughter.  You are but a youth, yet—­quite too young to think of such ties as those of marriage, and to make any lasting engagement of that nature; but, even were this not the case, I am entirely ignorant of those pretensions which should prompt your claim to the hand of Edith.”

Had Colonel Colleton been a prudent and reflective man—­had he, indeed, known much, if anything, of human nature—­he would have withheld the latter part of this sentence.  He must have seen that its effect would only be to irritate a spirit needing an emollient.  The reply was instantaneous.

“My pretensions, Colonel Colleton?  You have twice uttered that word in my ears, and with reference to this subject.  Let me understand you.  If you would teach me by this sentence the immeasurable individual superiority of Edith over myself in all things, whether of mind, or heart, or person, the lesson is gratuitous.  I need no teacher to this end.  I acknowledge its truth, and none on this