was Lettice to
persuade that Mr. St. Leger's happiness and dignity would not be
hazarded; then there was Edgar to reason out of calling her romantic;
and last of all there was the general, for Mrs. Melwyn, I consider, as
Catherine did, already persuaded.

This last task _did_ appear formidable. She put it off as long as she
could; she got every body else in the right frame of mind before she
ventured upon it; she had persuaded both Edgar and Mrs. Melwyn to second
her, if need were, and at length, with a dreadful feeling of
trepidation, she broached the subject to the old veteran. With all the
coolness she could muster she began her speech, and laid the whole
matter before him. He did not interrupt her while she spoke by one
single word, or remark good, bad, or indifferent. It was awful--her poor
little heart fluttered, as if it were going to stop; she expected the
storm every instant to burst forth in some terrible outbreak. She sat
there shuddering at her own rashness. If even Edgar had called her
absurd, what would her father do! If St. Leger himself had been so
difficult to manage, what would the old general say! He said nothing.
She would not be discouraged: she began to speak again, to recapitulate
every argument; she warmed with the subject; she was earnest, eloquent,
pathetic--tears were in the good creature's eyes; still he was silent.
At last, wearied out with useless exertion, she ceased to urge the
matter any further; and endeavoring to conquer her feelings of deep
disappointment, looked up in his face to see whether the slightest
relenting expression was visible in it. No; his eyes were fixed upon the
floor; he seemed lost in deep thought.

"Papa," she ventured to say, "have you heard all I have been saying?"

"Yes, child."

Silence again for a few minutes, then--"Catherine, did you ever know me
do a good action in your life?"

"Dear papa, what a question."

"Did you ever know me, I say, to do one thoroughly generous, benevolent
action, without regard to self in the slightest degree--such as I
call--such as alone merits the name of a really _good_ action? If you
ever did, I can't easily forgive you."

"Dearest papa! what have I done? Did I ever say? Did I ever hint? Dear
papa!" and she looked ready to cry.

"Did you ever?--no--I know you never did."

"Don't say so--don't think so badly of me, papa."

"I'm not thinking badly of you, child--God forbid; for well he knows if
I ever did one really ge