professing a perfect readiness to
submit to his directions; and her father's perplexity was very great,
for Annette had rather fervently dramatized the young man's words at the
ball at Helmstone, which had pleasantly tickled him, and, besides,
he liked the young man. On the other hand, he did not at all like the
prospect of losing his daughter; and he would have desired her to be a
lady of title. He hinted at her right to claim a high position. Annette
shrank from the prospect, saying, "Never let me marry one who might be
ashamed of my father!"

"I shouldn't stomach that," said Van Diemen, more disposed in favour of
the present suitor.

Annette was now in a tremor. She had a lover; he was coming. And if he
did not come, did it matter? Not so very much, except to her pride. And
if he did, what was she to say to him? She felt like an actress who may
in a few minutes be called on the stage, without knowing her part. This
was painfully unlike love, and the poor girl feared it would be her
conscientious duty to dismiss him--most gently, of course; and perhaps,
should he be impetuous and picturesque, relent enough to let him hope,
and so bring about a happy postponement of the question. Her father had
been to a neighbouring town on business with Mr. Tinman. He knocked at
her door at midnight; and she, in dread of she knew not what--chiefly
that the Hour of the Scene had somehow struck--stepped out to him
trembling. He was alone. She thought herself the most childish of
mortals in supposing that she could have been summoned at midnight to
declare her sentiments, and hardly noticed his gloomy depression. He
asked her to give him five minutes; then asked her for a kiss, and told
her to go to bed and sleep. But Annette had seen that a great present
affliction was on him, and she would not be sent to sleep. She promised
to listen patiently, to bear anything, to be brave. "Is it bad news from
home?" she said, speaking of the old home where she had not left her
heart, and where his money was invested.

"It's this, my dear Netty," said Van Diemen, suffering her to lead him
into her sitting-room; "we shall have to leave the shores of England."

"Then we are ruined."

"We're not; the rascal can't do that. We might be off to the Continent,
or we might go to America; we've money. But we can't stay here. I'll not
live at any man's mercy."

"The Continent! America!" exclaimed the enthusiast for England. "Oh,
papa, you love living in