“And left yourself without a penny?” said Mr. Holdfast, almost overcome with delight, as he afterwards told her, at her childish innocence, simplicity and kindness.
“Yes,” she replied, overjoyed that he did not scold her, “I left myself without a penny.”
“You will have to buy me another purse,” he said.
The young lady exhibited her own little fairy porte-monnaie, and turned it out—there was not a sixpence in it. “You must give me some money to do it with,” she said.
“You are not fit to be trusted with money,” he said; “I really am puzzled what to do with you.”
Upon this she burst into tears; her helpless position, and his goodness and tenderness, overcame her.
“If you cry like that,” he said softly, “I shall never forgive myself.”
Her depression vanished; her sunny look returned; and they conversed together thereafter as though they had known each other for years—as though he had been her father’s friend, and had nursed her on his knee when she was a child. Needless to say, he made matters right with this simple, innocent, confiding young lady, and that from that time there existed between them a bond which was destined to ripen into the closest and most binding tie which man and woman can contract. At first she looked upon him as her second father, but insensibly there dawned upon her soul a love as sweet and strong as if he had been a twenty years younger man than he was. When he asked her to be his wife, telling her that he most truly loved her, that he would devote himself to her and make her the happiest woman in the world, she raised a thousand objections.
“One objection would be sufficient,” he said, sadly, “if you cannot forget it. My age.”