“It is very unreasonable of them, to be miserable.”

“Oh, lovers parted could never yet make themselves happy with reason.”

“But why do you say parted?  All I said was, ’No engagement till you can make a settlement:  and don’t compromise her in the meanwhile.’  I did not mean to interdict occasional visits.”

“Then why not say so?  That is so like people.  You made your unfavorable stipulation plain enough; but the little bit of comfort, you left that in doubt.  This comes of not putting yourself in his place.  I have had a talk with him about it, and he thinks he is not to show his face here till he is rich enough to purchase your daughter of you.”

“But I tell you he has misunderstood me.”

“Then write to him and say so.”

“No, no; you take an opportunity to let him know he has really rather overrated my severity, and that I trust to his honor, and do not object to a visit—­say once a week.”

“It is a commission I will undertake with pleasure.”

“And do you really think that will do her bodily health any good?”

Before Doctor Amboyne could reply, the piano was suddenly touched in the next room, and a sweet voice began to sing a cheerful melody.  “Hush!” said Doctor Amboyne.  “Surely I know that tune.  Yes, I have heard the other whistle it.”

“She has not sung for ever so long,” remarked Mr. Carden.

“And I think I can tell you why she is singing now:  look at this picture of Hope; I just told her I had a male patient afflicted with her complaint, and the quick-witted creature asked me directly if I thought this picture would do him any good.  I said yes, and I’d take it to him.”

“Come, doctor, that couldn’t make her sing.”

“Why not?  Heart can speak to heart, even by a flower or a picture.  The separation was complete; sending this symbol has broken it a little, and so she is singing.  This is a lesson for us ruder and less subtle spirits.  Now mind, thwarted love seldom kills a busy man; but it often kills an idle woman, and your daughter is an idle woman.  He is an iron pot, she is a china vase.  Please don’t hit them too hard with the hammer of paternal wisdom, or you will dent my iron pot, and break your china vase to atoms.”

Having administered this warning, Dr. Amboyne went straight from Woodbine Villa to Little’s factory; but Little was still in London; he had gone there to take out patents.  Bayne promised to send the doctor a line immediately on his return.  Nevertheless, a fortnight elapsed, and then Dr. Amboyne received a short, mysterious line to tell him Mr. Little had come home, and would be all the better of a visit.  On receipt of this the doctor went at once to the works, and found young Little lying on his carpenter’s bench in a sort of gloomy apathy.  “Hallo!” said the doctor, in his cheerful way, “why what’s the matter now?”

“I’m fairly crushed,” groaned the inventor.