Mr. Brand looked at him; then at Mr. Wentworth; lastly at Gertrude.  He did not look at Charlotte.  But Charlotte’s earnest eyes were fastened to his own countenance; they were asking an immense question of it.  The answer to this question could not come all at once; but some of the elements of it were there.  It was one of the elements of it that Mr. Brand was very red, that he held his head very high, that he had a bright, excited eye and an air of embarrassed boldness—­the air of a man who has taken a resolve, in the execution of which he apprehends the failure, not of his moral, but of his personal, resources.  Charlotte thought he looked very grand; and it is incontestable that Mr. Brand felt very grand.  This, in fact, was the grandest moment of his life; and it was natural that such a moment should contain opportunities of awkwardness for a large, stout, modest young man.

“Come in, sir,” said Mr. Wentworth, with an angular wave of his hand.  “It is very proper that you should be present.”

“I know what you are talking about,” Mr. Brand rejoined.  “I heard what your nephew said.”

“And he heard what you said!” exclaimed Felix, patting him again on the arm.

“I am not sure that I understood,” said Mr. Wentworth, who had angularity in his voice as well as in his gestures.

Gertrude had been looking hard at her former suitor.  She had been puzzled, like her sister; but her imagination moved more quickly than Charlotte’s.  “Mr. Brand asked you to let Felix take me away,” she said to her father.

The young minister gave her a strange look.  “It is not because I don’t want to see you any more,” he declared, in a tone intended as it were for publicity.

“I should n’t think you would want to see me any more,” Gertrude answered, gently.

Mr. Wentworth stood staring.  “Is n’t this rather a change, sir?” he inquired.

“Yes, sir.”  And Mr. Brand looked anywhere; only still not at Charlotte.  “Yes, sir,” he repeated.  And he held his handkerchief a few moments to his lips.

“Where are our moral grounds?” demanded Mr. Wentworth, who had always thought Mr. Brand would be just the thing for a younger daughter with a peculiar temperament.

“It is sometimes very moral to change, you know,” suggested Felix.

Charlotte had softly left her sister’s side.  She had edged gently toward her father, and now her hand found its way into his arm.  Mr. Wentworth had folded up the “Advertiser” into a surprisingly small compass, and, holding the roll with one hand, he earnestly clasped it with the other.  Mr. Brand was looking at him; and yet, though Charlotte was so near, his eyes failed to meet her own.  Gertrude watched her sister.

“It is better not to speak of change,” said Mr. Brand.  “In one sense there is no change.  There was something I desired—­something I asked of you; I desire something still—­I ask it of you.”  And he paused a moment; Mr. Wentworth looked bewildered.  “I should like, in my ministerial capacity, to unite this young couple.”