“Yet listen!  You know I was to have been his heiress!”

“No, indeed I did not know it! never heard it! never suspected it! never even thought of it!  How did I know but that he had sons and daughters, or nephews away at school!”

“Well, I was to have been his heiress.  Now he disinherits me, unless I consent to be married to his friend and favorite, Dr. Grimshaw.”

“You put the case gently and delicately, dear Edith, but the hard truth is this—­is it not—­that he will disinherit you, if you consent to be mine?  You need not answer me, dearest Edith, if you do not wish to; but listen—­I have nothing but my sword, and beyond my boundless love nothing to offer you but the wayward fate of a soldier’s wife.  Your eyes are full of tears.  Speak, Edith Lance!  Can you share the soldier’s wandering life?  Speak, Edith, or lay your hand in mine.  Yet, no! no! no!  I am selfish and unjust.  Take time, love, to think of all you abandon, all that you may encounter in joining your fate to mine.  God knows what it has cost me to say it—­but—­take time, Edith,” and he pressed and dropped her hand.

“I do not need to do so.  My answer to-day, to-morrow, and forever, must be the same,” she answered, in a very low voice; and her eyes sought the ground, and the blush deepened on her cheek, as she laid her hand in his.  How he pressed that white hand, to his lips, to his heart!  How he clasped her to his breast!  How he vowed to love and cherish her as the dearest treasure of his life need not here be told.

Edith said: 

“Now take me in to uncle, and tell him, for he asked me not to keep him in suspense.”

Michael led her into the hall, where the commodore strode up and down, making the old rafters tremble and quake with every tread—­puffing—­blowing over his fallen hopes, like a nor’-wester over the dead leaves.

Michael advanced, holding the hand of his affianced, and modestly announced their engagement.

“Humph!  So the precious business is concluded, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Michael, with a bow.

“Well, I hope you may be as happy as you deserve!  When is the proceeding to come off?”

“What, sir?”

“The marriage, young gentleman?”

“When shall I say, dearest Edith?” asked Michael, stooping to her ear.

“When uncle pleases,” murmured the girl.

“Uncle pleases nothing, and will have nothing to do with it, except to advise as early a day as possible,” he blurted out; “what says the bride?”

“Answer, dearest Edith,” entreated Michael Shields.

“Then let it be at New Year,” said Edith, falteringly.

“Whew!—­six months ahead!  Entirely too far off!” exclaimed the commodore.

“And so it really is, beloved,” whispered Michael.

“Let it be next week,” abruptly broke in the commodore.  “What’s the use of putting it off?  Tuesdays and Thursdays are the marrying days, I believe; let it then be Tuesday or Thursday.”