“I have told her all—told her that a great golden blaze of light seemed to fall upon me when I first beheld her. I love her and have avowed my love. She bade me seek you—bade me ask your consent. That is why I am here.”
“I see and comprehend most fully. You love one another. Well, Mr. Gatliffe, you are not the first man who has been struck with Aveline—but let that pass. I esteem and respect you, and, as far as I am concerned, there will be no impediment in the way.”
“I think you too worthy a fellow to offer any objection to—you have my consent. As far as that is concerned, consider the matter settled. But there are other considerations,” she added, in a more serious tone.
“Considerations!” he exclaimed. “Possibly you allude to my position in life.”
“Oh, dear me, no—not for a moment.”
“Pray explain. Let me know the worst,” he ejaculated, in evident trepidation.
“In the first place,” answered the widow, “I must inform you that Aveline is not my daughter.”
“Not your daughter, Mrs. Maitland! Impossible!”
“No, but I am quite as fond of her as if she were my own child, but she is not, and I think it but right and proper that you should be put in possession of all the facts. She is not my daughter.”
“Whose daughter is she then?”