"He was a man," he said, "and of age to please himself—he meant to be his own master—he did not care a fig for his father's opinions and prejudices, and he would marry Dorothy, whether he liked it or not."
There is no knowing how the quarrel might have terminated—for Rushmere was an obstinate, self-willed man like his son—had not the innocent cause of the disturbance, instead of crying and wringing her hands, or dropping down at his feet in a dead faint, like any other heroine of romance, quietly stepped up to the exasperated farmer, and, laying her hand upon his arm, said in her pleasant, cheerful voice.
"Don't be afraid, father. He shan't marry me without your consent, so don't be angry and abuse us all; for which you will be sorry an hour hence. Listen now to me. I love Gilbert. I believe that he loves me. I love you and mother also. I do not intend to vex or grieve you by any conduct of mine; nor do I mean to leave you, now you are both infirm and old. I am young and strong, and better able to work than you are. If you turn me out of the house by one door, I will come in at the other. I owe you a large debt of gratitude, which I want to work out—so do not talk of sending me away. God gave you to me for parents. I have no other, nor friends beside you in the wide world."
Her lips quivered, but, quickly regaining her composure, she went on. "Hear me, father, while I promise you faithfully, before God and you all—and you know, father, I never told you a lie—that I will not marry Gilbert without your consent and approbation—your full, free, hearty consent." She held out her hand—"Will that satisfy you?"
Obstinate as he was, the girl's frank honesty conquered the angry old man. He took the proffered peace-offering, and shook it warmly.
"Ay, lass! I will e'en take thee at thy word. You are more dutiful than yon chap. I cannot so easily forgive him."
"But you must forgive him, father. Angry people are not aware of all the hard things they say to each other."
"True for you, girl. I have naught to say agin you, Dolly; I might get a worse daughter. But there are some ugly drawbacks to that bargain."
"Don't name them, father,"—and Dorothy raised her small hand beseechingly. "I know them well enough,"—tears now glistened in her eyes, she turned her head away,—"I never felt that I was so poor and friendless before." Then kissing the old man, she ran out of the room. Gilbert's "O shame, father," and Mrs. Rushmere's "God bless the dear child," following her hasty retreat.
Dorothy was deeply moved, but was only too glad to be the means of restoring peace to the belligerents she had left.