"You see I was right. I said you were a goose," says Miss Peyton, irreverently. But she pats his hand, in the very sweetest manner possible, as she says it. Then she goes on:
"Horace said he would come up to-morrow to speak to you."
"Very well, dear. That is the usual thing, I suppose. I hope he won't be long-winded, or lachrymose, or anything that way. When a thing is done it is done, and discussion is so unnecessary."
"Promise me to be very, very kind to him."
"I shan't eat him, if you mean that," says Mr. Peyton, half irritably. "What do you think I am going to say to him? 'Is thy father an ogre, that he should do this thing?' But have you quite made up your mind to this step? Remember there will be no undoing it."
"I know that; but I feel no fear." She has grown pale again. "I love him. How should I know regret when with him? I believe in him, and trust him; and I know he is worthy of all my trust."
Mr. Peyton sighs. Some words come to his memory, and he repeats them,—slowly, beneath his breath,—
"There are no tricks in plain and simple faith!"
Truly, her faith is pure and simple, and free from thought of guile.
"I wonder what James Scrope will say to it all?" he says, presently.