t now, but he will be wise again
presently. He has known you too long not to know your worth."

"Julia," I said, "I do know how good you are. You have always been
generous, and you are so now. I owe you as much gratitude as my father
does, and any thing I can do to prove it I am ready to do this day."

"Will you marry her before we leave Jersey?" asked my father.

"Yes," I answered.

The word slipped from me almost unawares, yet I did not wish to retract
it. She was behaving so nobly and generously toward us both, that I was
willing to do any thing to make her happy.

"Then, my love," he said, "you hear what Martin promises. All's well
that ends well. Only make up your mind to put your proper pride away,
and we shall all be as happy as we were before."

"Never!" she cried, indignantly. "I would not marry Martin here,
hurriedly and furtively; no, not if you were dying, uncle!"

"But, Julia, if I were dying, and wished to see you united before my
death!" he insinuated. A sudden light broke upon me. It was an ingenious
plot--one at which I could not help laughing, mad as I was. Julia's
pride was to be saved, and an immediate marriage between us effected,
under cover of my father's dangerous illness. I did smile, in spite of
my anger, and he caught it, and smiled back again. I think Julia became
suspicious too.

"Martin," she said, sharpening her voice to address me, "do _you_ think
your father is in any danger?"

"No, I do not," I answered, notwithstanding his gestures and frowns.

"Then that is at an end," she said. "I was almost foolish enough to
think that I would yield. You don't know what this disappointment is to
me. Everybody will be talking of it, and some of them will pity me, and
the rest laugh at me. I am ashamed of going out-of-doors anywhere. Oh,
it is too bad! I cannot bear it."

She was positively writhing with agitation; and tears, real tears I am
sure, started into my father's eyes.

"My poor little Julia!" he said; "my darling! But what can be done if
you will not marry Martin?"

"He ought to go away from Guernsey," she sobbed. "I should feel better
if I was quite sure I should never see him, or hear of other people
seeing him."

"I will go," I said. "Guernsey will be too hot for me when all this is
known."

"And, uncle," she pursued, speaking to him, not me, "he ought to promise
me to give up that girl. I cannot set him free to go and marry her--a
stranger and adventuress. She will be