It is later August when you call to Madge one day to bring you the little escritoire, in which are your cherished papers; among them is your last will and testament. Thornton has just left you, and it seems to you that his repeated kindnesses are deserving of some substantial mark of your regard.
"Maggie," you say, "Mr. Thornton has been very kind to me."
"Very kind, father."
"I mean to leave him here some little legacy, Maggie."
"I would not, father."
"But Madge, my daughter!"
"He is not looking for such return, father."
"But he has been very kind, Madge; I must show him some strong token of my regard. What shall it be, Maggie?"
Madge hesitates,—Madge blushes,—Madge stoops to her father's ear as if the very walls might catch the secret of her heart;—"Would you give me to him, father?"