“As regards her future,” her father continued, “I am not an old man; and if anything were to happen to me, she has friends.  Nor will I say to you a word about myself, or my claim on her society and help; for parents have not the right to sacrifice the happiness of their children to their own convenience; it is so fortunate when they find, however, that there is no dispositions on the part of the young to break those ties that have been formed by the companionship of many years.  It is this, my dear friend and colleague, that makes me thank you for having spoken so early; that I ask you to reconsider, and that I can advise my daughter, without the fear that I am acting in a tyrannical manner or thwarting any serious affection on her part.  You will perceive I do not dictate.  I ask you to think over whether it is wise for your own happiness—­whether it would improve Natalie’s probabilities of happiness—­whether it would interfere in some measure with the work you have undertaken—­if you continue to cherish this fancy, and let it grow on you.  Surely it is better, for a man to have but one purpose in life.  Nevertheless, I am open to conviction.

“That reminds me that there is another matter on which I should like to say a few words to you when there is the chance.  If there is a break in the current of your present negotiations, shall you have time to run up to London?  Only this:  you will, I trust, not seek to see Natalie, or to write to her, until we have come to an understanding.  Again I thank you for having spoken to me so early, before any mischief can have been done.  Think over what I have said, my dear friend; and remember, above all things, where your chief duty lies.

  “Yours sincerely, Ferdinand Lind.”

* * * * *

He read this letter over two or three times, and the more he read it the more he was impressed with the vexatious conviction that it would be an uncommonly difficult thing to answer it.  It was so reasonable, so sensible, so plausible.  Then his old suspicions returned.  Why was this man Lind so plausible?  If he objected, why did he not say so outright?  All these specious arguments:  how was one to turn and twist, evading some, meeting others; and all the time taking it for granted that the happiness of two people’s lives was to be dependent on such logic-chopping as could be put down on a sheet of paper?

Then he grew impatient.  He would not answer the letter at all.  Lind did not understand.  The matter had got far ahead of this clever argumentation; he would appeal to Natalie herself; it was her “Yes” or “No” that would be final; not any contest and balancing of words.  There were others he could recall, of more importance to him.  He could almost hear them now in the trembling, low voice:  “I will be your wife, or the wife of no one.  Dear friend, I can say no more.” And again, when she gave him the forget-me-nots, “Whatever