quietly toward the young
couple, and, addressing himself to Elbridge, said, "My children, I have
a favor to ask of you."

"Anything, grandfather!" Elbridge answered promptly.

"You are sure?" Old Sylvester's eyes twinkled as he spoke.

"It would be the pleasure and glory of my young days," Elbridge answered
again, "to crown your noble old age, grandfather, with any worthy wreath
these hands could fashion, and not call it a favor either."

Old Sylvester, smiling from one to the other, said, "You are to be
married immediately."

The young couple fell back and dropped each the other's hand, which they
had been holding. Miriam trembled and shrunk the farthest away.

"You will not deny me?" the grandfather said again. "You are the
youngest and the last whom I can hope to see joined in that bond which
is to continue our name and race; it is my last request on earth."

At these simple words, turning, and with a fond regard which spoke all
their thoughts, Miriam and Elbridge took again each the other's hand,
and drew close side to side. The company rose, and Mr. Barbary was on
the point of speaking when there emerged upon the family scene, from an
inner chamber, as though he had been a foreigner entering a fashionable
drawing-room, Mr. Tiffany Carrack, in the very blossom of full dress;
his hair in glossy curl, with white neckcloth and waistcoat of the
latest cut and tie, coat and pants of the purest model, pumps and silk
stockings; bearing in his hand a gossamer pocket-handkerchief, which he
shook daintily as he advanced, and filled the room with a strange
fragrance. With mincing step, just dotting the ground, his whole body
shaking like a delicate structure in danger every moment of tumbling to
the ground, he advanced to where Miriam and Elbridge stood before Mr.
Barbary.

"Why really, 'pon my life and honor, Miriam, you are looking quite
charming this evening!"

"She should look so now if ever, Tiffany," said old Sylvester, "for she
is just about to be married to your cousin Elbridge."

"Now you don't mean that?" said Mr. Tiffany, touching the tawny tufts
tenderly with his perfumed pocket-handkerchief, "Oh, woman! woman! what
is your name?" He hesitated for a reply.

"Perfidy?" suggested Mr. Oliver Peabody.

"Yes, that's it. Have I lived to look on this," Mr. Tiffany continued;
"to have my young hopes blighted, the rose of my existence cropped, and
all that. Is it for this," addressing Miriam directly: he had