knows what he is about. I'll not burden him with partners. He shall have
it all--every thing--he is worthy of it, if it were ten tines as much--he
can do as he likes--when I am cold and mouldering in the grave; but he
must not owe any thing to the lady of his heart, but his attention, and
his kindness, and his dear love. I know my spirited and high-minded boy."

Yes, and he knew human nature generally--knew its weaknesses and
faults--and lived upon them. His words require but little explanation. The
wedding-day had not been fixed. The ceremony once over, and his mind
would be at rest. "It was a consummation devoutly to be wished." Why? He
knew well enough. Michael had proposed the day, but she asked for time,
and he refrained from further importunity. His love and delicacy forbade
his giving her one moment's pain. Abraham was less squeamish. His long
experience told him that some good reason must exist for such a wish to
dwell in the young bosom of the blooming widow. It was unnatural and
foreign to young blood. It could be nothing else than the fear of parting
with her wealth--of placing all at the command of one, whom, though she
loved, she did not know that she might trust. Satisfied of this, he
resolved immediately to calm her apprehensions, and to assure her that not
one farthing of her fortune should pass from her control. He spoke of his
son as a man of wealth already, too proud to accept another's gold, even
were he poor. Perhaps he was. Margaret at least believed so. Abraham did
not quit her till the marriage day was settled.

He returned from the widow in ecstasy, and called his son to his own snug
private room.

"I have done it for you, Michael," said the father, rubbing his grasping
hands--it's done--it's settled, lad. Two months' patience, and the jewel
is your own. Thank your father, on your knees--oh, lucky Mike! But mark me,