"Oh. Does he come often?"
"Pretty often. We wish it was oftener. We like him to be here."
"He seems presuming."
"Dear papa! Presuming! He is not at all so. And he is very talented and clever. He took honours at Oxford, and—"
"I see," interrupted Major Carlen, displaying his large and regular teeth—a habit of his when not pleased. He had rapidly taken up an idea, and it angered him. "Is this the parson, Blanche? He looks very sanctimonious."
"Oh, papa!" she returned, feeling ready to cry at his contemptuous tone. "He is the best man that ever lived. Everyone loves and respects him."
"Hope it's merited, my dear," concluded the Major, as he met the hand of the Reverend John Ravensworth.
Ere middle-day, the Major had scattered a small bombshell through the parsonage by announcing that he had come to take his daughter away. Blanche felt it bitterly. It was her home, and a happy one. To exchange it for the Major's did not look now an inviting prospect. Though she would not acknowledge it to her own heart, she was beginning to regard him with more awe than love. That the resolution must have been suddenly formed she knew, for he had not come down with any intention of removing her.
"Papa, my things can never be ready," was her last forlorn argument, when others had failed.
"Things?" said the Major. "Trunks, and clothes, and rattle-traps? They can be sent after you, Blanche."