taken his seat near the window, at a distance from me; he opened a
desk; he took from it what looked like a memorandum-book; of this book
he studied a certain entry for several minutes.

"Miss Snowe," said he, laying it down, "do you know my little girl's
age?"

"About eighteen, is it not, sir?"

"It seems so. This old pocket-book tells me she was born on the 5th of
May, in the year 18--, eighteen years ago. It is strange; I had lost
the just reckoning of her age. I thought of her as twelve--fourteen--an
indefinite date; but she seemed a child."

"She is about eighteen," I repeated. "She is grown up; she will be no
taller."

"My little jewel!" said M. de Bassompierre, in a tone which penetrated
like some of his daughter's accents.

He sat very thoughtful.

"Sir, don't grieve," I said; for I knew his feelings, utterly unspoken
as they were.

"She is the only pearl I have," he said; "and now others will find out
that she is pure and of price: they will covet her."

I made no answer. Graham Bretton had dined with us that day; he had
shone both in converse and looks: I know not what pride of bloom
embellished his aspect and mellowed his intercourse. Under the stimulus
of a high hope, something had unfolded in his whole manner which
compelled attention. I think he had purposed on that day to indicate
the origin of his endeavours, and the aim of his ambition. M. de
Bassompierre had found himself forced, in a manner, to descry the
direction and catch the character of his homage. Slow in remarking, he
was logical in reasoning: having once seized the thread, it had guided
him through a long labyrinth.

"Where is she?" he asked.

"She is up-stairs."

"What is she doing?"

"She is writing."

"She writes, does she? Does she receive letters?"

"None but such as she can show me. And--sir--she--_they_ have long
wanted to consult you."

"Pshaw! They don't think of me--an old father! I am in the way."

"Ah, M. de Bassompierre--not so--that can't be! But Paulina must speak
for herself: and Dr. Bretton, too, must be his own advocate."

"It is a little late. Matters are advanced, it seems."

"Sir, till you approve, nothing is done--only they love each other."

"Only!" he echoed.

Invested by fate with the part of confidante and mediator, I was
obliged to go on: "Hundreds of times has Dr. Bretton been on the point
of appealing to you, sir; but, with all his high courage, he fears you
mortally."

"He may well--