“I hope, Friend Mitchenor,” said the young man, scarcely knowing how to approach so important a crisis in his life, “I hope thee has been satisfied with my conduct since I came to live with thee, and has no fault to find with me as a man.”
“Well,” exclaimed Eli, turning around and looking up, sharply, “does thee want a testimony from me? I've nothing, that I know of, to say against thee.”
“If I were sincerely attached to thy daughter, Friend Mitchenor, and she returned the attachment, could thee trust her happiness in my hands?”
“What!” cried Eli, straightening himself and glaring upon the speaker, with a face too amazed to express any other feeling.
“Can you confide Asenath's happiness to my care? I love her with my whole heart and soul, and the fortune of my life depends on your answer.”
The straight lines in the old man's face seemed to grow deeper and more rigid, and his eyes shone with the chill glitter of steel. Richard, not daring to say a word more, awaited his reply in intense agitation.
“So!” he exclaimed at last, “this is the way thee's repaid me! I didn't expect THIS from thee! Has thee spoken to her?”
“I have.”
“Thee has, has thee? And I suppose thee's persuaded her to think as thee does. Thee'd better never have come here. When I want to lose my daughter, and can't find anybody else for her, I'll let thee know.”
“What have you against me, Friend Mitchenor?” Richard sadly asked, forgetting, in his excitement, the Quaker speech he had learned.