marker.

Having culminated to that, he wrote and proposed marriage to Miss Dale,
in a charming letter: she showed it to her father with pride.

Now, if his vanity, his disloyalty, his falsehood, his ingratitude,
and his other virtues had not stood in the way, he would have done this
three years ago, and been jumped at.

But the offer came too late; not for Phoebe--she would have taken him in
a moment--but for her friends. A baited hook is one thing, a bare hook
is another. Farmer Dale had long discovered where Phoebe's money went:
he said not a word to her; but went up to town like a shot; found Falcon
out, and told him he mustn't think to eat his daughter's bread. She
should marry a man that could make a decent livelihood; and if she
was to run away with HIM, why they'd starve together. The farmer was
resolute, and spoke very loud, like one that expects opposition, and
comes prepared to quarrel. Instead of that, this artful rogue addressed
him with deep respect and an affected veneration, that quite puzzled
the old man; acquiesced in every word, expressed contrition for his past
misdeeds, and told the farmer he had quite determined to labor with his
hands. "You know, farmer," said he, "I am not the only gentleman who has
come to that in the present day. Now, all my friends that have seen my
sketches, assure me I am a born painter; and a painter I'll be--for love
of Phoebe."

The farmer made a wry face. "Painter! that is a sorry sort of a trade."

"You are mistaken. It's the best trade going. There are gentlemen making
their thousands a year by it."