“Can I have a word with you in private?” said Albertson, in a low voice.
“Certainly.” And the two retired to a part of the store distant from the counting-room. The young man appeared disturbed, and this disturbance was very apparent in his voice, when he said,
“Mr. Townsend, some years ago I was bold enough to ask for the hand of your daughter Eunice, when you refused my request. I now renew my suit, and, I trust, with more hope of a favorable issue.”
Mr. Townsend was taken altogether by surprise. Nothing was further from his thoughts than this. For some moments he could not reply, but looked into the suitor’s face with an expression of countenance that the latter was unable to interpret as favorable or adverse to his wishes.
“Have I your consent? Or are you still repugnant to the connection I propose?” he said, after a pause.
“Mr. Albertson! take her, in Heaven’s name!” exclaimed the agitated father, grasping with convulsive energy the hand of the young man. “If you have the love of her young heart, you possess a treasure of priceless value. May she be to you as good a wife as she has been to me a daughter.”
Mr. Townsend could say no more, for his voice lost its steadiness, and choked with emotion.
Albertson returned in silence the pressure of the father’s hand.
Eunice was with her mother and sister about an hour after, and they were talking of the occurrences of the day before, when the bell was rung, and Eveline went to the door.
“Another of those mysterious billetdoux, Eunice,” she said, as she returned and handed her a letter. “I’m dying to know who this faithful correspondent of yours is. If you don’t soon let me into your secret, I shall be tempted to break open that closely-locked writing-case of yours, and find it out for myself.”