“Something which will perhaps give you a chance to display your magnanimity,” Mr. Grant answered with a smile.
The girl gave him a deep and somewhat troubled look.
“I shall be glad when there are no more mysteries,” she said. “Nothing good comes of them.”
“It depends in some measure upon yourself how soon this mystery is dissipated,” returned Mr. Grant. “Have you no mysteries of your own?”
“Oh, housekeeping mysteries—how to boil a potato, or starch a frill; I shall never have any other kind,” answered Marion with a laugh, and turning away.
“To-morrow,” said Mr. Grant, after a pause, “you and I will have a chat about mysteries, and perhaps we may clear each other up. Good-by, my dear.” He took her hand, and drawing her a little toward him, kissed her cheek. She looked at him, reddening, and said:
“Be careful of yourself. Good-by.”
“Proud and jealous,” said the old gentleman to himself, as he marched down the street to the corner where the coach passed; “but we shall circumvent that, I hope. What is the use of my twenty thousand pounds if she will not be my daughter? But there is common sense at the bottom of Philip’s romance, that will counteract and persuade her stubbornness—if it comes to that.”
The coach came along, and in due time landed Mr. Grant in the city; and ten minutes later he had entered Merton Fillmore’s private office, which had witnessed many singular revelations, but none more so, perhaps, than the one which was now going to take place.
“Good day, sir,” said the lawyer, rising ceremoniously as his visitor entered. “Is your business likely to occupy us long?”