of Edith,--very fond indeed."

"Is she?" said the major, more distracted than ever. Why should he
not do the magnificent thing after all? "But it is a great charge for
a young girl when she marries."

"It is a great charge;--a very great charge. It is for you to think
whether you should entrust so great a charge to one so young."

"I have no fear about that at all."

"Nor should I have any,--as you ask me. We have known Grace well,
thoroughly, and are quite sure that she will do her duty in that
state of life to which it may please God to call her."

The major was aware when this was said to him that he had not come
to Miss Prettyman for a character of the girl he loved; and yet
he was not angry at receiving it. He was neither angry, nor even
indifferent. He accepted the character almost gratefully, though
he felt that he was being led away from his purpose. He consoled
himself for this, however, by remembering that the path by which Miss
Prettyman was now leading him, led to the magnificent, and to those
pleasant castles in the air which he had been building as he walked
into Silverbridge. "I am quite sure that she is all that you say," he
replied. "Indeed I had made up my mind about that long ago."

"And what can I do for you, Major Grantly?"

"You think I ought not to see her?"

"I will ask herself, if you please. I have such trust in her judgment
that I should leave her altogether to her own discretion."

The magnificent thing must be done, and the major made up his mind
accordingly. Something of regret came over his spirit as he thought
of a father-in-law disgraced and degraded, and of his own father
broken-hearted. But now there was hardly an alternative left to him.
And was it not the manly thing for him to do? He had loved the girl
before this trouble had come upon her, and was he not bound to accept
the burden which his love had brought with it? "I will see her," he
said, "at once, if you will let me, and ask her to be my wife. But I
must see her alone."

Then Miss Prettyman paused. Hitherto she had undoubtedly been playing
her fish cautiously, or rather her young friend's fish,--perhaps I
may say cunningly. She had descended to artifice on behalf of the
girl whom she loved, admired, and pitied. She had seen some way into
the man's mind, and had been partly aware of his purpose,--of his
infirmity of purpose, of his double purpose. She had perceived that a
word from her might help Grace's chance, an