ng I
have been praying for. And without such a marriage, what would be her
fate when I am gone? A drudge and dependent in some middle-class family
perhaps--tyrannised over and tormented by a brood of vulgar children."

Marian came in at the open window while he was still pacing to and fro
with a disturbed countenance.

"My dear uncle, what is the matter?" she asked, going up to him and
laying a caressing hand upon his shoulder. "I know you never walk about
like that unless you are worried by something."

"I am not worried to-day, my love; only a little perplexed," answered the
Captain, detaining the caressing little hand, and planting himself face
to face with his niece, in the full sunlight of the broad bow-window.
"Marian, I thought you and I had no secrets from each other?"

"Secrets, uncle George!"

"Yes, my dear. Haven't you something pleasant to tell your old
uncle--something that a girl generally likes telling? You had a visitor
yesterday afternoon while I was asleep."

"Mr. Fenton."

"Mr. Fenton. He has been here with me just now; and I know that he asked
you to be his wife."

"He did, uncle George."

"And you didn't refuse him, Marian?"

"Not positively, uncle George. He took me so much by surprise, you see;
and I really don't know how to refuse any one; but I think I ought to
have made him understand more clearly that I meant no."

"But why, my dear?"

"Because I am sure I don't care about him as much as I ought to care. I
like him very well, you know, and think him clever and agreeable, and all
that kind of thing."

"That will soon grow into a warmer feeling, Marian; at least I trust in
God that it will do so."

"Why, dear uncle?"

"Because I have set my heart upon this marriage. O Marian, my love, I
have never ventured to speak to you about your future--the days that must
come when I am dead and gone; and you can never know how many anxious
hours I have spent thinking of it. Such a marriage as this would secure
you happiness and prosperity in the years to come."

She clung about him fondly, telling him she cared little what might
become of her life when he should be lost to her. _That_ grief must
needs be the crowning sorrow of her existence; and it would matter
nothing to her what might come afterwards.

"But my dear love, 'afterwards' will make the greater part of your life.
We must consider these things seriously, Marian. A good man's affection
is not to be thrown away rashly. You h