se this conversation. My son
knows my sentiments, and will doubtless act upon them. I never maintain
arguments with my children." And the sentence implied that what "I never
do," was consequently a thing unnecessary and impossible to be done. The
old gentleman leant on each arm of his chair, and feebly tried to rise.

"Father," cried Nathanael, detaining him, "I would do much rather than
try you thus; but it cannot be helped. I must work."

"I do not see the necessity."

"But if there be a necessity; if my own feelings, my conscience--other
reasons, which here I cannot urge"--and involuntarily his eye glanced
towards his wife.

An instinct of delicacy brightened the old man's perceptions. He bowed
to Agatha. "We need not apologise for these discussions before a lady
who has done my son the honour of uniting her fortune to his ancient
family." (And he evidently thought the honour bestowed was quite as
much on the Harper side.) "She, I am sure, will agree with me that this
proceeding is not necessary."

Agatha hesitated. Much as she longed to do it, a sense of right
prevented her from openly siding against her husband. She kept silence;
Nathanael answered with the tone of one who sets a strong guard upon his
lips, almost stronger than he can bear:

"I have already told my wife all the reasons I have just given you,
that, since I am resolved to be independent, there is no way but this. I
have been brought up abroad, and have learnt no profession; my health is
not robust enough for a town life, or for hard study. Many, almost all
the usual modes in which a man, born a gentleman, can earn his living
are thus shut out from me. What Anne Valery offers me I _can_ do,
and should be content in doing. Father, do not stand in the way of my
winning for myself a little comfort--a little peace."

Through his entreaty, earnest and manly as it was, there ran a sort of
melancholy which surprised and grieved Agatha. Could this be the lover
on whom, in giving him herself, she believed she had bestowed entire
felicity? Had he too, like herself, found a something wanting in
marriage, a something to fill up which he must needs resort to an active
career of worldly toil? Would she never be able to make either him or
herself truly happy? and if so, what was the cause?

The Squire keenly regarded his son, who stood before him in an attitude
so respectful yet so firm. Something seemed to strike him in the pale,
delicate, womanish feature