bsolute sympathy with
them," she said, returning his caress; "and that I should always be
with you. But do not imagine that I am in love with the idea of your
being a famous man. I care nothing for fame in itself. It is only that
I believe you to be capable of great things, and that you would be
happier if they were developed."

"Well, well," he said, laughing; "have your own way, as you will in
spite of me. If ever the divine fire lays me in ashes, you may triumph
in your predictions. But I must go and interview your father; I have
kept him waiting too long already."

They went out into the hall, and Dartmouth left her there and went to
the library. Sir Iltyd was sitting before a large table, reading by
the light of a student's lamp, which looked like an anachronism in
the lofty, ancient room. He closed his book as Dartmouth entered, and
rising, waved his hand toward a chair on the other side of the table.

"Will you sit down?" he said; "I should like to have a little talk
with you."

Dartmouth obeyed, and waited for the old gentleman to introduce the
subject. Sir Iltyd continued in a moment, taking up a small book and
bringing it down lengthwise on the desk at regular intervals while he
spoke:

"Of course, you must know, Harold, that it has not taken me two weeks
to discover my personal feelings toward you. I should have liked or
disliked you on the first evening we met, and, as a matter of fact, my
sensations towards you have undergone no change since that night. If
it had happened that I disliked you, I should not have allowed the
fact to bias my judgment as to whether or not you were a suitable
husband for my daughter, but it would not have taken me two weeks
to make up my mind. As it is I have merely delayed my consent as an
unnecessary formality; but perhaps the time has come to say in so many
words that I shall be very glad to give my daughter to you."

"Thank you," said Dartmouth. The words sounded rather bald, but it
was an unusual situation, and he did not know exactly what to say.
Something more was evidently expected of him, however, and he plunged
in recklessly: "I am sure I need not say that I am highly honored
by your regard and your confidence, nor protest that you will never
regret it. To tell you that I loved Weir with all my heart would be
trite, and perhaps it is also unnecessary to add that I am not a man
of 'veering passions'--that is, of course when my heart is engaged as
well."

Sir Il