"I am glad you don't object," said Fitzpiers, almost wishing that Grace
had not been quite so cheap for him.

"If she is willing I don't object, certainly. Indeed," added the
honest man, "it would be deceit if I were to pretend to feel anything
else than highly honored personally; and it is a great credit to her to
have drawn to her a man of such good professional station and venerable
old family. That huntsman-fellow little thought how wrong he was about
her! Take her and welcome, sir."

"I'll endeavor to ascertain her mind."

"Yes, yes. But she will be agreeable, I should think. She ought to
be."

"I hope she may. Well, now you'll expect to see me frequently."

"Oh yes. But, name it all--about her cough, and her going away. I had
quite forgot that that was what I came about."

"I assure you," said the surgeon, "that her cough can only be the
result of a slight cold, and it is not necessary to banish her to any
seaside place at all."

Melbury looked unconvinced, doubting whether he ought to take
Fitzpiers's professional opinion in circumstances which naturally led
him to wish to keep her there. The doctor saw this, and honestly
dreading to lose sight of her, he said, eagerly, "Between ourselves, if
I am successful with her I will take her away myself for a month or
two, as soon as we are married, which I hope will be before the chilly
weather comes on. This will be so very much better than letting her go
now."

The proposal pleased Melbury much. There could be hardly any danger in
postponing any desirable change of air as long as the warm weather
lasted, and for such a reason. Suddenly recollecting himself, he said,
"Your time must be precious, doctor. I'll get home-along. I am much
obliged to ye. As you will see her often, you'll discover for yourself
if anything serious is the matter."

"I can assure you it is nothing," said Fitzpiers, who had seen Grace
much oftener already than her father knew of.

When he was gone Fitzpiers paused, silent, registering his sensations,
like a man who has made a plunge for a pearl into a medium of which he
knows not the density or temperature. But he had done it, and Grace
was the sweetest girl alive.

As for the departed visitor, his own last words lingered in Melbury's
ears as he walked homeward; he felt that what he had said in the
emotion of the moment was very stupid, ungenteel, and unsuited to a
dialogue with an educated gentleman, the smallness of