was sitting in his favourite arm-chair by the window, with a
reading lamp on the little table by his side, and the _Times_ newspaper
in his hand.

"Your niece has brought you a nephew, sir," said Gilbert.

The Captain threw aside his paper, and stretched out both his hands to
the young man.

"My dear boy, I cannot tell you how happy this makes me!" he cried.
"Didn't I promise you that all would go well if you were patient? My
little girl is wise enough to know the value of a good man's love."

"I am very grateful, uncle George," faltered Marian, taking shelter
behind the Captain's chair; "only I don't feel that I am worthy of so
much thought."

"Nonsense, child; not worthy! You are the best girl in Christendom, and
will make the brightest and truest wife that ever made a man's home dear
to him."

The evening went on very happily after that: Marian at the piano, playing
plaintive dreamy melodies with a tender expressive touch; Gilbert sitting
close at hand, watching the face he loved so dearly--an evening in
Paradise, as it seemed to Mr. Fenton. He went homewards in the moonlight
a little before eleven o'clock, thinking of his new happiness--such
perfect happiness, without a cloud. The bright suburban villa was no
longer an airy castle, perhaps never to be realized; it was a delightful
certainty. He began to speculate as to the number of months that must
needs pass before he could make Marian his wife. There was no reason for
delay. He was well-off, his own master, and it was only her will that
could hinder the speedy realization of that sweet domestic dream which
had haunted him lately.

He told his sister what had happened next morning, when Martin Lister had
left the breakfast table to hold audience with his farm bailiff, and
those two were together alone. He was a little tired of having his visits
to the cottage criticised in Mrs. Lister's somewhat supercilious manner,
and was very glad to be able to announce that Marian Nowell was to be his
wife.

"Well, Gilbert," exclaimed the matron, after receiving his tidings with
tightly-closed lips and a generally antagonistic demeanour, "I can only
say, that if you must marry at all--and I am sure I thought you had quite
settled down as a bachelor, with your excellent lodgings in Wigmore
Street, and every I possible comfort in life--I think you might have
chosen much better than this. Of course, I don't want to be rude or
unpleasant; but I cannot help saying, that