spirit of the age," said I.

"It's a spirit common to all ages, I take it," he answered, with a quirk
of his judicial mouth. "Do I understand that you and my daughter have
first become engaged and now wish my permission to see enough of each
other to become acquainted?"

Perhaps he hit a centre ring with this thrust, for I could only stammer
forth an awkward statement about being very sure of my feelings.

"They all are sure!" he said, with a good-natured cynicism. Then he
smiled again and pointed toward the ceiling with a long forefinger.
"Perhaps you may be pleased to know that she is very sure," he
whispered.

I sat down.

"Yes," said he solemnly. "You are to be envied. I believe her love--as I
have seen it grow in these weeks--is the sweetest thing that ever flowed
from a human soul."

"You knew that she at first sent me away in the name of her duty to
you?" said I.

He looked up at me, shut his book, patted the dog, and laid the pipe on
the table.

"No," said he, with a break in his voice. "But I shall not quickly
forget that you have been fair enough to her and to me to tell me that."

"May I have her?" I asked.

"Yes," said he. "Of course you may."

I hesitated a moment. Then I laughed. "She told me when you had said
that to go to her."

I rose.

"Wait," said he. "That is not all. Before God, I wish it were."

I had not been watching his expression, but now, when I looked up at
him, I saw that the gray look which I had fancied I had seen under his
smile had now come out upon his face.

"Estabrook," he said, leaning forward toward me with his lips
compressed, "sometime, perhaps years from now, perhaps never, but, if
you choose, to-night--you may know what a problem I have had to solve,
and what it will cost me to say to you that which I am going to say."

He had lowered his voice as if he wished to be sure that no one could
overhear him, and now, when he stopped, he stood with his head turned as
if listening to be sure that no one was in the hallway. No sounds came,
however, except those of the dog, who whined softly in his dreams, and
the complaint of the dry wind, which, instead of diminishing with night,
had perhaps increased its intensity, and the rattle of the long French
windows through which I could see the gnarled old wistaria vine clinging
desperately to the iron balcony, its leaves tossing about as if in
agony.

"I have sat on the bench for many years, trying with my imperfect
in