, you must have a heart of stone to wish to
disturb them!"

The squire, with some difficulty, pushed aside his footstool, hobbled to
his feet, and walked to the window where the southern sun was pouring
in. In the distance he saw the gray of Frances's dress through the
trees, and Philip's square, manly, upright figure walking slowly by her
side.

He pushed open the window, and hoarsely and angrily called his
daughter's name.

"She doesn't hear you," said Fluff. "I expect he's proposing for her
now; isn't it lovely? Aren't you delighted? Oh, where's my guitar? I'm
going to play 'Sweethearts.' I do hope, squire, you'll give Frances a
very jolly wedding."

But the squire had hobbled out of the room.

He was really very lame with rheumatic gout; but the sight of that gray,
slender figure, pacing slowly under the friendly sheltering trees, was
too much for him; he was overcome with passion, anxiety, rage.

"She's giving herself away," he murmured. "That little vixen, Fluff, is
right--she's in love with the fellow, and she's throwing herself at his
head; it's perfectly awful to think of it. She has forgotten all about
her old father. I'll be a beggar in my old age; the Firs will have to
go; I'll be ruined, undone. Oh, was there ever such an undutiful
daughter? I must go to her. I must hobble up to that distant spot as
quickly as possible; perhaps when she sees me she may pause before she
irrevocably commits so wicked an act. Oh, how lame I am! what agonies
I'm enduring! Shall I ever be in time? He's close to her--he's almost
touching her--good gracious, he'll kiss her if I'm not quick! that
little wretch Fluff could have reached them in a twinkling, but she
won't do anything to oblige me this morning. Hear her now, twanging away
at that abominable air, 'Sweethearts'--oh--oh--puff--puff--I'm quite
blown! This walk will kill me! Frances--I say, Frances, Frances."

The feeble, cracked old voice was borne on the breeze, and the last high
agonized note reached its goal.

"I am coming, father," responded his daughter. She turned to Arnold and
held out her hand.

"God bless you!" she said.

"Is your answer final, Frances?"

"Yes--yes. I wish I had not kept you a week in suspense; it was cruel to
you, but I thought--oh, I must not keep my father."

"Your father has you always, and this is my last moment. Then you'll
never, never love me?"

"I can not marry you, Philip."

"That is no answer. You never loved me."