ring into yellow flashes, between which Vesta saw her
forefathers dart cold glances at her, in their gilt frames--yet how
helpless they were, with all their respectability, to take her body or
her father's honor out of pawn!--and she felt for the first time the
hollowness of family power, except in the ever-preserved mail of a
solvent posterity. She also made a long, careful survey of her suitor,
to see if there was any apology for him as a husband.

His figure was short, but with strength and elasticity in it; better
clothes might fit him daintily, and Vesta re-dressed him in fancy with
lavender kids upon his small hands, a ring upon his long little finger,
a carnelian seal and a ribbon at his fob-pocket, and ruffles in his
shirt-bosom. In place of his dull cloth suit, she would give him a buff
vest and pearl buttons with eyelet rings, and white gaiters instead of
those shabby green things over his feet, and put upon his head a neat
silk hat with narrow brim to raise his height slenderly, and let a coat
of olive or dark-blue, and trousers of the same color, relieve his
ornaments. Thus transformed, Vesta could conceive a peculiar yet a
passable man, whom a lady might grow considerate towards by much praying
and striving, and she wondered, now, how this man had managed to soothe
her already to that degree that she had voluntarily kissed him. She
would be afraid to do it again, but it was as clearly on record as that
she had once put a flower in his hat; and Vesta said to herself:

"He has power of some kind! That story, little as I heard of it, was
told with an opinionated confidence I wish my poor father had something
of. Could I ever be happy with this man, by study and piety? God might
open the way, but it seems closed to me now."

"The night wears on, Miss Custis," spoke Meshach. "Its rewards are
already great to me. When may I return?"

"I think we must determine what to do this night, Mr. Milburn," Vesta
said, with rising determination. "Not one point nearer have we come to
any solution of this obligation of my father. We have considered it up
to this time as my obligation, and that may have unduly encouraged you.
Sir, I can work for my living."

"You _work_?" repeated Milburn.

"Why not? I love my father. As other women who are left poor work for
their children or a sick husband, why should not I for him! Poverty has
no terrors but--but the loss of pride."

"You hazard that, whatever happens," said her suit