"It was inexcusable in a poor music teacher, who should have known his place," Mr. Richmond declared; and he clutched the little perfumed billet which had fallen into his hands, as he might a scorpion, and waited for the others with a look upon his face which told of no softening. At last six little white envelopes, tied together with blue ribbons, were laid at his elbow by his trembling daughter.
"Lock these up until I return home this evening," he said to his wife; "I will read them then. Meanwhile Lucilla is not to see this music teacher on any pretence whatever."
Mr. Richmond put on his hat and departed, and Lucilla and her mother took the opportunity of falling into each other's arms.
"It is so naughty of you," said Mrs. Richmond. "But oh, dear, I can't blame you. It was exactly so with your father, and my father objected because of his poverty. He used to be very romantic himself in those old times. Such letters as he wrote to me. I have them in my desk yet. He said he'd die if I refused him."
"So does Fred," said Lucilla.
"And that life would be worthless without me, and about my being beautiful,—I'm sure he ought to sympathize a little," said Mrs. Richmond.
She went into her own room to put the letters into her desk; and as she placed them into one of the pigeon holes, she saw in another a bundle, tied exactly as these were, and drew them out. These letters were to a Lucilla also, one who had received them twenty years before. A strange idea came into Mrs. Richmond's mind.
When she left the desk she looked guilty and frightened. The dinner hour arrived, and with it came her husband, angered and more determined than ever. The meal was passed in silence; then, having adjourned to the parlor, Mr. Richmond seated himself in a great arm-chair, and demanded, in a voice of thunder: "Those absurd letters, if you please."
"Six letters—six shameful pieces of deception, Lucilla," said the indignant parent. "I am shocked that a child of mine should practice such duplicity. Hem! let me see. Number one, I believe. June, and this is December. Half a year you have deceived us then, Lucilla. Let me see—ah! 'From the first moment I adored you,' bah! Nonsense. People don't fall in love in that absurd manner. 'With your smiles for a goal, I would win both fame and fortune, poor as I am!' Fiddlesticks, Lucilla. A man who has common sense would always wait until he had a fair commencement before he proposed to a girl. Praising your beauty, eh? 'The loveliest creature I ever saw!' Exaggeration, my dear. You are not plain, but such flattery is absurd. 'Must hear from you or die!' Dear, dear, dear—how absurd!" And Mr. Richmond dropped the first letter and picked another. "The same stuff," he commented. "I hope you do not believe a word he says. Ah! now in number three he calls you 'an angel!' He's romantic, upon my soul! And what is this? 'Those who forbid me to see you can find no fault with me but my poverty. I am honest—I am earnest in my efforts. I am by birth a gentleman, and I love you from the depths of my soul. Do not let them sell you for gold, Lucilla.' Great heavens, what impertinence to your parents!"
"I don't remember Fred saying anything of that kind," said poor little Lucilla. "He never knew you would object."