might never be realized. At the same time, he had his reasons for
believing that he was at least personally acceptable to her.

"She was always glad to see me," said poor Rothsay. "We
constantly talked of you. She spoke of your kindness so prettily
and so gratefully. Oh, Lepel, it is not her beauty only that has
won my heart! Her nature is the nature of an angel."

His voice failed him. For the first time in my remembrance of our
long companionship, he burst into tears.

I was so shocked and distressed that I had the greatest
difficulty in preserving my own self-control. In the effort to
comfort him, I asked if he had ventured to confide in his father.

"You are the favorite son," I reminded him. "Is there no gleam of
hope in the future?"

He had written to his father. In silence he gave me the letter in
reply.

It was expressed with a moderation which I had hardly dared to
expect. Mr. Rothsay the elder admitted that he had himself
married for love, and that his wife's rank in the social scale
(although higher than Susan's) had not been equal to his own.

"In such a family as ours," he wrote--perhaps with pardonable
pride--"we raise our wives to our own degree. But this young
person labors under a double disadvantage. She is obscure, and
she is poor. What have you to offer her? Nothing. And what have I