“I beg your pardon, Mr Dawson. I thought you were alone,” said he in some embarrassment.
“Come awa’ in,” said Mr Dawson. “I thought, my lad, there was nothing more to be said the nicht?”
“And so did I. And indeed there has been little said as yet.”
Mr Dawson laughed uneasily. No one was less fitted to act the part of the mollified father at the last moment, and he felt quite as little at his ease as either of them. But he could not but look with pride and pleasure on the handsome pair.
“I doubt there is little more that need be said.”
“Only a single word from you, sir. I know as well as you that I am not worthy of her, but man and boy I have loved her all my life.”
Mr Dawson had risen and Jean’s face was hidden on his shoulder. He raised her face and kissed her, saying softly,—
“I doubt the word is with Jean now.”
It is possible that even now Mr Dawson might have resented a triumphant claiming of Jean on her lover’s part. But he only smiled, well pleased when the young man bowed his handsome head and kissed her hand as if it had been the hand of a royal princess. And then he sent them away to be congratulated by Aunt Jean and the rest.
“And if they are any of them more surprised at my consent than I am myself, it will be strange,” said he to himself as he sat down again, not sure even yet that he was not displeased, or at least disappointed still. But by the time he heard the slow unequal steps of his sister coming, as was her custom when any thing more than usual was going on, for a word or two with him before she went to her bed, he was able to receive her softly spoken congratulations cheerfully enough.