“Yes, I think I get your American point of view.  But to return to myself, if you will allow me; if I am so fortunate as to win Miss Debree’s love, I have no fear that she would not win the hearts of all my family.  Do you think that my—­my prospective position would be an objection to her?”

“Not your position, no; if her heart were engaged.  But expatriation, involving a surrender of all the habits and traditions and associations of a lifetime and of one’s kindred, is a serious affair.  One would need to be very much in love”—­and Miss Forsythe blushed a little as she said it—­“to make such a surrender.”

“I know.  I am sure I love her too much to wish to bring any change in her life that would ever cause her unhappiness.”

“I am glad to feel sure of that.”

“And so I have your permission?”

“Most sincerely,” said Miss Forsythe, rising and giving him her hand.  “I could wish nothing better for Margaret than union with a man like you.  But whatever I wish, you two have your destiny in your own hands.”  Her tone was wholly frank and cordial, but there was a wistful look in her face, as of one who knew how roughly life handles all youthful enthusiasms.

When John Lyon walked away from her door his feelings were very much mixed.  At one instant his pride rebelled against the attitude he had just assumed.  But this was only a flash, which he put away as unbecoming a man towards a true woman.  The next thought was one of unselfish consideration for Margaret herself.  He would not subject her to any chance of social mortifications.  He would wait.  He would return home and test his love by renewing his lifelong associations, and by the reception his family would give to his proposal.  And the next moment he saw Margaret as she had become to him, as she must always be to him.  Should he risk the loss of her by timidity?  What were all these paltry considerations to his love?

Was there ever a young man who could see any reasons against the possession of the woman he loved?  Was there ever any love worth the name that could be controlled by calculations of expediency?  I have no doubt that John Lyon went through the usual process which is called weighing a thing in the mind.  It is generally an amusing process, and it is consoling to the conscience.  The mind has little to do with it except to furnish the platform on which the scales are set up.  A humorist says that he must have a great deal of mind, it takes him so long to make it up.  There is the same apparent deliberation where love is concerned.  Everything “contra” is carefully placed in one scale of the balance, and it is always satisfactory and convincing to see how quickly it kicks the beam when love is placed in the other scale.  The lightest love in the world, under a law as invariable as gravitation, is heavier than any other known consideration.  It is perhaps doing injustice to Mr. Lyon not to dwell upon this struggle in his mind, and to say that in all honesty he may not have known that the result of it was predetermined.  But interesting and commendable as are these processes of the mind, I confess that I should have respected him less if the result had not been predetermined.  And this does not in any way take from him the merit of a restless night and a tasteless breakfast.