"No, never, Father!" cries Anne; "never, dear Father—"
"Dark are the Ways of God," continues he, unheeding her; "not only annulling his first best Gift of Light to me, and leaving me a Prey to daily Contempt, Abuse, and Wrong, but mangling my tenderest, most apprehensive Feelings—"
Anne again breaks in with, "Oh! Father, Father!"
"Dark, dark, for ever dark!" he went on; "but just are the Ways of God to
Man. Who shall say, 'What doest Thou?'"
"Father, I promise you," says Anne, "that I will never more think of John Herring."
"Foolish Girl!" he replies sadly; "as ready now to promise too Much, as resolute just now to hear Nothing. How can you promise never to think of him? I never asked it of you."
"At least I can promise not to speak of him," says Anne.
"Therein you will do wisely," rejoins Father. "My Consent having been asked is an Admission that I have a Right to give or withhold it; and, as I have already told John Herring, I shall certainly not grant it before you are of Age. Perhaps by that Time you may be your own Mistress, without even such an ill Home as I, while I live, can afford you."
"No more of that," says Anne, interrupting him; and a Kiss sealed the
Compact.
All this Time, Mother and Mary were, providentially, out of the Way. Mother had gone off in a Huff, and Mary was busied in making some marbled Veal.