t was a
protracted ceremony, and the courses were well served and admirably
cooked; the wine came from a carefully selected cellar, and was beyond
reproach. Madge presided at the table, and joined in the conversation;
but it evidently cost her an effort to be cheerful. After the dessert
she rose.

"Will you and Mr. Royle excuse me, father?" she said. "I know you want
to smoke."

"I hope you are not going to desert us, Miss Foster," Nevill replied.
"Your company is preferable to the best cigar."

"We will go up stairs and smoke," said Stephen Foster. "Come, Royle; my
daughter would rather play the piano."

The library, whither Nevill accompanied his host, was on the second
floor front. It was a cozy room, trimmed with old oak, with furniture to
match, lined with books and furnished with rare engravings and Persian
rugs. Stephen Foster lighted the incandescent gas-lamp on the big table,
drew the window curtains together, and closed the door. Then he unlocked
a cabinet and brought out a box of Havanas, a siphon, a couple of
glasses, and a bottle of whisky and one of Maraschino.

"Sit down, and help yourself," he said. "Or is it too early for a
stimulant?"

Nevill did not reply; he was listening to the low strains of music from
the floor beneath, where Madge was at the piano, singing an old English
ballad. He hesitated for a moment, and dropped into an easy chair.
Stephen Foster drew his own chair closer and leaned forward.

"We are quite alone," he said, "and there is no danger of being
overheard or disturbed. You intimated that you had something particular
to say to me. What is it? Does it concern our little--"

"No; we discussed that after we left the train. It is quite a different
matter."

Nevill's usual self-possession seemed to have deserted him, and as he
went on with his revelation he spoke in jerky sentences, with some
confusion and embarrassment.

"That's all there is about it," he wound up, aggressively.

"All?" cried Stephen Foster.

He got up and walked nervously to the window. Then he turned back and
confronted Nevill; there was a look on his face that was not pleasant to
see, as if he had aged suddenly.

"Is this a jest, or are you serious?" he demanded, coldly. "Do I
understand that you love my daughter?--that you wish to marry her?"

"I have told you so plainly. You must have known that I loved her--you
cannot have been blind to that fact all this time."

"I have been worse than blind,