Grace happened to have a headache next morning, and did not come down to breakfast: but it was Saturday, and Mr. Carden always lunched at home on that day. So did Grace, because it was one of Little's days. This gave Mr. Carden the opportunity he wanted. When they were alone he fixed his eyes on his daughter, and said quietly, “What is your opinion of—a jilt?”

“A heartless, abominable creature,” replied Grace, as glibly as if she was repeating some familiar catechism.

“Would you like to be called one?”

“Oh, papa!”

“Is there nobody who has the right to apply the term to you?”

“I hope not.” (Red.)

“You encouraged Mr. Coventry's addresses?”

“I am afraid I did not discourage them, as I wish I had. It is so hard to foresee every thing.”

“Pray do you remember the fifth day of last December?”

“Can I ever forget it?” (Redder.)

“Is it true that Mr. Coventry proposed for you, that day?”

“Yes.”

“And you accepted him.”

“No; no. Then he has told you so? How ungenerous! All I did was, I hesitated, and cried, and didn't say 'no,' downright—like a fool. Oh, papa, have pity on me, and save me.” And now she was pale.

Mr. Carden's paternal heart was touched by this appeal, but he was determined to know the whole truth. “You could love him, in time, I suppose?”

“Never.”

“Why?”

“Because—”

“Now tell me the truth. Have you another attachment?”

“Yes, dear papa.” (In a whisper and as red as fire.)

“Somebody of whom you are not proud.”

“I AM proud of him. He is Mr. Coventry's superior. He is everybody's superior in everything in the world.”

“No, Grace, you can hardly be proud of your attachment; if you had been, you would not have hidden it all this time from your father.” And Mr. Carden sighed.

Grace burst out crying, and flung herself on her knees and clung, sobbing, to him.

“There, there,” said he, “I don't want to reproach you; but to advise you.”

“Oh, papa! Take and kill me. Do: I want to die.”

“Foolish child! Be calm now; and let us talk sense.”

At this moment there was a peculiar ring at the door, a ring not violent, but vigorous.

Grace started and looked terrified: “Papa!” said she, “say what you like to me, but do not affront HIM; for you might just as well take that knife and stab your daughter to the heart. I love him so. Have pity on me.”

The servant announced “Mr. Little!”

Grace started up, and stood with her hand gripping the chair; her cheek was pale, and her eyes glittered; she looked wild, and evidently strained up to defend her lover.

All this did not escape Mr. Carden. He said gently, “Show him into the library.” Then to Grace as soon as the servant had retired, “Come here, my child.”

She knelt at his knees again, and turned her imploring, streaming eyes up to him.

“Is it really so serious as all this?”

“Papa, words cannot tell you how I love. But if you affront him, and he leaves me, you will see how I love him; you will know, by my grave-side, how I love him.”

“Then I suppose I must swallow my disappointment how I can.”

“It shall be no disappointment; he will do you honor and me too.”

“But he can't make a settlement on his wife, and no man shall marry my daughter till he can do that.”

“We can wait,” said Grace, humbly.

“Yes, wait—till you and your love are both worn out.”

“I shall wear out before my love.”

Mr. Carden looked at her, as she knelt before him, and his heart was very much softened. “Will you listen to reason at all?” said he.

“From you, I will, dear papa.” She added, swiftly, “and then you will listen to affection, will you not?”

“Yes. Promise me there shall be no formal engagement, and I will let him come now and then.”

This proposal, though not very pleasant, relieved Grace of such terrible fears, that she consented eagerly.

Mr. Carden then kissed her, and rose, to go to young Little; but, before he had taken three steps, she caught him by the arm, and said, imploringly, “Pray remember while you are speaking to him that you would not have me to bestow on any man but for him; for he saved my life, and Mr. Coventry's too. Mr. Coventry forgets that: but don't you: and, if you wound him, you wound me; he carries my heart in his bosom.”

Mr. Carden promised he would do his duty as kindly as possible; and with that Grace was obliged to content herself.

When he opened the library door, young Little started up, his face irradiated with joy. Mr. Carden smiled a little satirically, but he was not altogether untouched by the eloquent love for his daughter, thus showing itself in a very handsome and amiable face. He said, “It is not the daughter this time, sir, it is only the father.”

Little colored up and looked very uneasy.

“Mr. Little, I am told you pay your addresses to Miss Carden. Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have never given me any intimation.”

Little colored still more. He replied, with some hesitation, “Why, sir, you see I was brought up amongst workmen, and they court the girl first, and make sure of her, before they trouble the parents; and, besides, it was not ripe for your eye yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm no match for Miss Carden. But I hope to be, some day.”

“And she is to wait for you till then?”

“She says she will.”

“Well, Mr. Little, this is a delicate matter; but you are a straightforward man, I see, and it is the best way. Now I must do my duty as a parent, and I am afraid I shall not be able to do that without mortifying you a little; but believe me, it is not from any dislike or disrespect to you, but only because it IS my duty.”

“I am much obliged to you, sir; and I'll bear more from you than I would from any other man. You are her father, and I hope you'll be mine one day.”

“Well, then, Mr. Little, I always thought my daughter would marry a gentleman in this neighborhood, who has paid her great attention for years, and is a very suitable match for her. You are the cause of that match being broken off, and I am disappointed. But although I am disappointed, I will not be harsh nor unreasonable to you. All I say is this: my daughter shall never marry any man, nor engage herself to any man, who cannot make a proper settlement on her. Can YOU make a proper settlement on her?”

“Not at present,” said Little, with a sigh.

“Then I put it to you, as a man, is it fair of you to pay her open attentions, and compromise her? You must not think me very mercenary; I am not the man to give my daughter to the highest bidder. But there is a medium.”

“I understand you, sir, so far. But what am I to do? Am I to leave off loving, and hoping, and working, and inventing? You might as well tell me to leave off living.”

“No, my poor boy; I don't say that, neither. If it is really for her you work, and invent, and struggle with fortune so nobly as I know you do, persevere, and may God speed you. But, meantime, be generous, and don't throw yourself in her way to compromise her.”

The young man was overpowered by the kindness and firmness of his senior, who was also Grace's father. He said, in a choking voice, there was no self-denial he would not submit to, if it was understood that he might still love Grace, and might marry her as soon as he could make a proper settlement on her.

Then Mr. Carden, on his part, went further than he had intended, and assented distinctly to all this, provided the delay was not unreasonable in point of time. “I can't have her whole life wasted.”

“Give me two years: I'll win her or lose her in that time.” He then asked, piteously, if he might see her.

“I am sorry to say No to that,” was the reply; “but she has been already very much agitated, and I should be glad to spare her further emotion. You need not doubt her attachment to you, nor my esteem. You are a very worthy, honest young man, and your conduct does much to reconcile me to what I own is a disappointment.”

Having thus gilded the pill, Mr. Carden shook hands with Henry Little, and conducted him politely to the street door.

The young man went away slowly; for he was disconsolate at not seeing Grace.

But, when he got home, his stout Anglo-Saxon heart reacted, and he faced the situation.

He went to his mother and told her what had passed. She colored with indignation, but said nothing.

“Well, mother, of course it might be better; but then it might be worse. It's my own fault now if I lose her. Cutlery won't do it in the time, but Invention will: so, from this hour, I'm a practical inventor, and nothing but death shall stop me.”