Abraham Allcraft, who had been busily engaged behind the scenes pulling the wires and exhibiting the puppets, appeared upon the stage as soon as the first act of the performance was at an end.  His son had said nothing to him, but Abraham had many eyes and ears, and saw and heard enough to make him mad with villainous delight.  The second year of widowhood had commenced.  Margaret had doffed her weeds.  She openly received the man on whom she had bestowed her heart.  They were betrothed.  The public voice proclaimed young Allcraft the luckiest of men; the public soul envied and hated him for his good fortune.  Abraham could never leave the presence of his future daughter—­and in her presence could never cease to flatter her, and to grow disgusting in his lavish praises of his son.

“When I first saw you, my dear lady,” said the greedy banker, “I had but one thought on my mind that livelong day.  ‘What would I give,’ said I, ’for such a daughter? what would I give if for my noble son I could secure so sweet a wife?  I never met his equal—­I say it, madam—­who, being his father, should perhaps not say it; but a stranger can admire his lusty form and figure, and his mind is just as vigorous and sprightly.  A rare youth, madam, I assure you—­too disinterested, perhaps—­too generous, too confiding—­too regardless of the value of that necessary evil—­money; but as he gets older he will be wiser.  I do believe he would rather have died, though he loved you so much—­than asked you for your hand, if he had not been thoroughly independent without it.’”

“I can believe it, sir,” sighed Margaret.

“I know you can—­bless you!  You were born for one another.  You are a sweet pair.  I know not which is prettiest—­which I love the best.  I love you both better than any thing in the world—­that is at present; for by-and-by, you know, I may love something quite as well.  Grandfathers are fond and foolish creatures.  But, as I was saying—­his independence is so fine—­so like himself.  Every thing I have will be his.  He is my partner now—­the bank will be his own at my death, madam.  A prosperous concern.  Many of our neighbours would like to have a finger in the pie; but Abraham Allcraft knows what he is about.  I’ll not burden him with partners.  He shall have it all—­every thing—­he is worthy of it, if it were ten tines as much—­he can do as he likes—­when I am cold and mouldering in the grave; but he must not owe any thing to the lady of his heart, but his attention, and his kindness, and his dear love.  I know my spirited and high-minded boy.”

Yes, and he knew human nature generally—­knew its weaknesses and faults—­and lived upon them.  His words require but little explanation.  The wedding-day had not been fixed.  The ceremony once over, and his mind would be at rest.  “It was a consummation devoutly to be wished.”  Why?  He knew well enough.  Michael had proposed the day, but she asked for time, and he refrained