w yourself that it is true and will not contradict
me. As the time went on, I perceived that you had established a claim to
my generosity such as did not exist when first you came here--the claim
of my affection and of my daughter's. This, I will confess, has given me
more pleasure than anything which has happened here for a long time. I
have no son and I take it as the beneficent work of Providence that one
should be sent to me as you were sent. My daughter would possibly have
married a scoundrel if the circumstances had been otherwise. So, you
see, that while you are now established here by right of our affection,
I am rewarded twofold for anything I may have done for you. Henceforth
this happy state of things must become still happier. I have spoken to
Anna to-night, and I should be very foolish if I could not construe her
answer rightly. She loves you, my lad, and will take you for her
husband. It remains for you to say that your happiness shall not be
delayed any longer than may be reasonable."

It need scarcely be said with what surprise Alban listened to this
lengthy recital. Some part of the truth had already been made known to
him--but this fuller account could not but flatter his vanity while it
left him silent in his amazement and perplexity. Richard Gessner, he
understood, had always desired a brilliant match for Anna, and had
sought an alliance with some of the foremost English families. If he
abandoned these ambitions, a shrewd belief in the impossibility lay at
the root of his determination. Anna would never marry as he wished. Her
birthright and her Eastern blood forbade it. She would be the child of
whim and of passion always, and it lay upon him to avert the greater
evil by the lesser. Alban in a vague way understood this, but of his own
case he could make little. What a world of ease and luxury and delight
these few simple words opened up to him. He had but to say "yes" to
become the ultimate master of this man's fortune, the possessor of a
heritage which would have been considered fabulous but fifty years ago.
And yet he would not say "yes." It was as though some unknown power
restrained him, almost as though his own brain tricked him. Of Anna's
sudden passion for him he had no doubt whatever. She was ready and
willing to yield her whole self to him and would, it might be, make him
a devoted wife. None the less, the temptation found him vacillating and
incapable even of a clear decision. Some voice of