After a pause he said: "I suppose I may take it, too, Malcolm Ross"-- the return to the familiarity of address swept through me with a glorious thrill--"that as yet you have not made any protestation to my daughter ?" "Not in words, sir." The arriere pensee of my phrase struck me, not by its own humour, but through the grave, kindly smile on the father's face.

There was a pleasant sarcasm in his comment: "Not in words! That is dangerous! She might have doubted words, or even disbelieved them." I felt myself blushing to the roots of my hair as I went on: "The duty of delicacy in her defenceless position; my respect for her father--I did not know you then, sir, as yourself, but only as her father--restrained me.

But even had not these barriers existed, I should not have dared in the presence of such grief and anxiety to have declared myself.

Mr.Trelawny, I assure you on my word of honour that your daughter and I are as yet, on her part, but friends and nothing more!" Once again he held out his hands, and we clasped each other warmly.

Then he said heartily: "I am satisfied, Malcolm Ross.