“I am very sorry,” said Leonie.
“Of course you are,” replied Mr. Cowdrick, “but being sorry is not enough. I should bear the calamity, when it comes, much more bravely if I were assured that my dear child had a good and affluent husband to console her amid the troubles that will befall her family. Is there no one to whom you could give your affection if you tried? If you tried right hard, just to please your poor old papa?”
Leonie hesitated before answering, and then she said,—
“Yes, papa, there is!”
“I am glad to hear that! Who is it, darling?”
“You will not be angry with me, papa, if I tell you, will you? I have given my love to some one, and that some one is—is—Mr. Weems, the artist!”
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Cowdrick, in a voice that indicated mingled surprise and indignation. “Not Julius Weems, the painter?”
“You don’t mean to say you are actually engaged to be married to that young man?” said Mrs. Cowdrick, vehemently.
“Yes, I am engaged to him,” said Leonie, putting her forehead down upon the arm of her father’s chair. “He proposed to me on Tuesday, while you were at the opera.”
“And you love him?” asked Mr. Cowdrick.