Charlotte smiled. She knew in her heart of hearts she should not oppose him. But being a true woman, she laid hold of a futile excuse.
"My book will not be finished. I like to do well what I do at all."
Her father was very proud of this coming book; but now, patting her hand, he said softly,—
"The book can keep. Put it out of your head for the present; you can get it done later."
"Then I shall leave you two months sooner, father; does that not weigh with you at all?"
"You are only going for your honeymoon, darling; and the sooner you go the sooner you will return."
"Vanquished on all points," said Charlotte, smiling radiantly, and then she sat still, looking into the fire.
Long, long afterwards, through much of sorrow—nay, even of tribulation—did her thoughts wander back to that golden evening of her life.
"You remind me of my own mother to-night," said her father presently.
Charlotte and her father had many times spoken of this dead mother. Now she said softly,—