ow.

Judge Merlin was walking up and down the floor, with signs of
disturbance in his looks and manners.

A waiter with decanters of brandy and wine, and some glasses, stood upon
the table. This was a very unusual thing.

"Well, Ishmael, it is done! my girl is to be a viscountess; but I do not
like it; no, I do not like it!"

Ishmael was incapable of reply; but the judge continued:

"It is not only that I shall lose her; utterly lose her, for her home
will be in another hemisphere, and the ocean will roll between me and my
sole child,--it is not altogether that,--but, Ishmael, I don't like
the fellow; and I never did, and never can!"

Here the judge paused, poured out a glass if wine, drank it, and
resumed:

"And I do not know why I don't like him! that is the worst of it! His
rank is, of course, unexceptionable, and indeed much higher than a plain
republican like myself has a right to expect in a son-in-law! And his
character appears to be unquestionable! He is good-looking,
well-behaved, intelligent and well educated young fellow enough, and so
I do not know why it is that I don't like him! But I don't like him, and
that is all about it!"

The judge sighed, ran his hands through his gray hair, and continued:

"If I had any reason for this dislike; if I could find any just cause of
offense in him; if I could put my hand down on any fault of his
character, I could then say to my daughter: 'I object to this man for
your husband upon this account,' and then I know she would not marry him
in direct opposition to my wishes. But, you see, I cannot do anything
like this, and my objection to the marriage, if I should express it,
would appear to be caprice, prejudice, injustice--"

He sighed again, walked several times up and down the floor in silence,
and then once more resumed his monologue:

"People will soon be congratulating me on my daughter's very splendid
marriage. Congratulating me! Good Heaven, what a mockery! Congratulating
me on the loss of my only child, to a foreigner, whom I half dislike and
more than half suspect--though without being able to justify either
feeling. What do you think, Ishmael? Is that a subject for
congratulation. But, good Heaven, boy! what is the matter with you? Are
you ill?" he suddenly exclaimed, pausing before the young man and
noticing for the first time the awful pallor of his face and the deadly
collapse of his form.

"Are you ill, my dear boy? Speak!"

"Yes, yes, I am