Late in the spring Ensign Michael Shields received orders to join his regiment in Canada, and upon their reception he had an explanation with Edith, and with her permission, had requested her hand of her uncle, Commodore Waugh.  This threw the veteran into a towering passion, and nearly drove him from his proprieties as host.  The young ensign was unacceptable to him upon every account.  First and foremost, he wasn’t “Grim,” Then he was an Israelite.  And, lastly! horror of horrors! he was a British officer, and dared to aspire to the hand of Edith.  It was in vain that his wife, the good Henrietta, tried to mollify him; the storm raged for several days—­raged, till it had expended all its strength, and subsided from exhaustion.  Then he called Edith and tried to talk the matter over calmly with her.

“Now all I have to say to you, Edith, is this,” he concluded, “that if you will have the good sense to marry Mr. Grimshaw, these intentions shall be more than fulfilled—­they shall be anticipated.  Upon your marriage with Grimshaw, I will give you a conveyance of Luckenough—­only reserving to myself and Old Hen a house, and a life-support in the place; but if you will persist in your foolish preference for that young scamp, I will give you—­nothing.  That is all, Edith.”

During the speech Edith remained standing, with her eyes fixed upon the floor.  Now, she spoke in a tremulous voice: 

“That is all—­is it not, uncle?  You will not deprive me of any portion of your love; will you, uncle?”

“I do not know, Edith!  I cannot tell; when you have deliberately chosen one of your own fancy, in preference to one of mine—­the man I care most for in the world, and whom I chose especially for you; why, you’ve speared me right through a very tender part; however, as I said before, what you do, do quickly!  I cannot bear to be kept upon the tenter hooks!”

“I will talk with Michael, uncle,” said Edith, meekly.

She went out, and found him pacing the lawn at the back of the house.

He turned toward her with a glad smile, took her hand as she approached him, and pressed it to his lips.

“Dearest Edith, where have you been so long?”

“With my uncle, Michael.  I have my uncle’s ‘ultimatum,’ as he calls it.”

“What is it, Edith?”

“Ah! how shall I tell you without offense?  But, dearest Michael you will not mind—­you will forgive an old man’s childish prejudices, especially when you know they are not personal—­but circumstantial, national, bigoted.”

“Well, Edith! well?”

“Michael, he says—­he says that I may give you my hand—­”

“Said he so!  Bless that fair hand, and bless him who bestows it!” he exclaimed, clasping her fingers and pressing them to his lips.

“Yes, Michael, but—­”

“But what! there is no but; he permits you to give me your hand; there is then no but—­’a jailer to bring forth some monstrous malefactor.’”