"Would you marry me?" asked a low, sneering voice in her ear.
She turned with a start of terror, and it appeared to her as if her reckless words had summoned the arch-fiend himself to her side.
The person who had addressed her was a horribly ugly and grotesque-looking old man.
He was at least sixty-five years of age, bent and stoop-shouldered, with features that were homely to the point of grotesqueness. His nose was large, his mouth wide, his small malevolent gray eyes peered beneath bushy red eyebrows supplemented by grizzled hair and whiskers of the same lurid color. His clothing was scrupulously neat, but well-worn and of cheap material.
"Would you marry me?" repeated this old man, and the beautiful girl gave a start of surprise not unmixed with fear.
"You—you—why, you are as poor as I am!" she gasped, her eyes roving over his shabby attire.
"Appearances are often deceitful, young lady. I look like a beggar, I know, and, truth to tell, I live like one, but I am rich enough to give you your heart's desire—a chest of gold. Did you ever hear of Charles Farnham, the miser?"
"Yes."
"I am Farnham, the miser, young lady, and for once I have a generous impulse. You are young, beautiful, and poor. I am old, ugly, and rich. In the world of fashion such marriages are not uncommon. Will you marry me?"