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‘Sir, I cannot repent.’

‘Repent! Not you! You triumph, no doubt: John Graham, you descended partly from a Highlander and a chief, and there is a trace of the Celt in all you look, speak, and think. You have his cunning and his charm. The red—(Well, then, Polly, the fair) hair, the tongue of guile, and brain of wile, are all come down by inheritance.’

‘Sir, I feel honest enough,’ said Graham; and a genuine English blush covered his face with its warm witness of sincerity. ‘And yet,’ he added, ‘I won’t deny that in some respects you accuse me justly. In your presence I have always had a thought which I dared not show you. I did truly regard you as the possessor of the most valuable thing the world owns for me. I wished for it; I tried for it. Sir, I ask for it now.’

‘John, you ask much.’

‘Very much, sir. It must come from your generosity, as a gift; from your justice, as a reward. I can never earn it.’

‘Ay! Listen to the Highland tongue!’ said Mr. Home. ‘Look up, Polly! Answer this “brawja wooer;” send him away!’

She looked up. She shyly glanced at her eager, handsome suitor. She gazed tenderly on her furrowed sire.

‘Papa, I love you both,’ said she; ‘I can take care of you both. I need not send Graham away—he can live here; he will be no inconvenience,’ she alleged with that simplicity of phraseology which at times was wont to make both her father and Graham smile. They smiled now.

‘He will be a prodigious inconvenience to me,’ still persisted Mr. Home. ‘I don’t want him, Polly; he is too tall; he is in my way. Tell him to march.’

‘You will get used to him, papa. He seemed exceedingly tall to me at first—like a tower when I looked up at him; but, on the whole, I would rather not have him otherwise.’

‘I object to him altogether, Polly; I can do without a son-in-law. I should never have requested the best man in the land to stand to me in that relation. Dismiss this gentleman.’

‘But he has known you so long, papa, and suits you so well.’

‘Suits me, forsooth! Yes; he has pretended to make my opinions and tastes his own. He has humoured me for good reasons. I think, Polly, you and I will bid him good-bye.’

‘Till to-morrow only. Shake hands with Graham, papa.’

‘No: I think not: I am not friends with him. Don’t think to coax me between you.’

‘Indeed, indeed, you are friends. Graham, stretch out your right hand. Papa, put out yours. Now, let them touch. Papa, don’t be stiff, close your fingers; be pliant—there! But that is not a clasp—it is a grasp! Papa, you grasp like a vice. You crush Graham’s hand to the bone; you hurt him!’

He must have hurt him; for he wore a massive ring, set round with brilliants, of which the sharp facets cut into Graham’s flesh and drew blood: but pain only made Dr. John laugh, as anxiety had made him smile.

‘Come with me into my study,’ at last, said Mr. Home to the doctor. They went. Their interview was not long, but I suppose it was conclusive. The suitor had to undergo an interrogatory and a scrutiny on many things. Whether Dr. Bretton was at times guileful in look and language or not, there was a sound foundation below. His answers, I understood afterwards, evinced both wisdom and integrity. He had managed his affairs well. He had struggled through entanglements; his fortunes were in the way of retrieval; he proved himself in a position to marry.

Once more the father and lover appeared in the library. M. de Bassompierre shut the door; he pointed to his daughter.

‘Take her,’ he said. ‘Take her, John Bretton; and may God deal with you as you deal with her!’

Not long after, perhaps a fortnight, I saw three persons, Count de Bassompierre, his daughter, and Dr. Graham Bretton, sitting on one seat, under a low-spreading and umbrageous tree, in the grounds of the palace at Bois 1’Etang. They had come thither to enjoy a summer evening: outside the magnificent gates their carriage waited to take them home; the green sweeps of turf spread round them quiet and dim; the palace rose at a distance,