“Can I have the pleasure of speaking with Miss—Miss—your daughter, sir?”
A frown gathered dark on the brow of Mr. Belden, as he replied,
“Who are you, sir?—and what is your business with Miss Belden, may I ask?”
“Here is my card,” answered Auburn. “I am aware my presence here may appear somewhat singular, yet as I leave town early to-morrow, I must urge a few moments conversation with that young lady.”
“Your boldness, sir, is unsurpassed. Miss Belden cannot have the honor of seeing you.”
The reply of Auburn was interrupted by the sudden appearance of that young lady, whom, we must frankly confess, had, with Emma, been playing the part of eaves-dropper, and fearing her father would really drive the rash youth away without an interview, which her love of mischief tempted her to grant. She broke from the entreaties of her cousin, and stepped quietly into the room.
“Ah, here is my daughter,” added Mr. Belden. “Now, sir, your business—what have you to say?”
But poor Auburn had nothing to say. That Miss Belden was not the one he sought, a glance sufficed to assure him; and Margaret, too, most provokingly assumed a stately never-saw-you-before-sir air, which rendered his embarrassment tenfold.
“I beg your pardon for this intrusion, Miss Belden,” said he at length, “for which I can offer no excuse, except that I have been laboring under a delusion,” and bowing, he was about to leave the apartment, when, by chance, his eye fell upon a music-book, on which the name of “Emma Willis” was inscribed. A drowning man will catch at a straw—so will a desperate lover. Turning abruptly he now hazarded the inquiry,
“Is Miss Willis at home?”