"And his objections arose purely from pride—aristocratic pride?"
"I never heard any other reason given for withholding his consent," replied Florence. "To me he never gave a reason. His commands were peremptory."
"And you have known this young man long?"
"I was but fifteen when he first came into my father's employ."
"And you love him with your whole heart?"
Florence lifted her eyes, and through the long black lashes flashed a reply so eloquent, so beautiful, that it made even the quiet clergyman draw a deep breath.
"Enough—I will marry them!" he said firmly. "I only wish the young man may prove worthy of all this—"
His soliloquy was cut short by the appearance of Jameson and his friend.
They were married—Florence Hurst, the only daughter and heiress of the richest merchant in New York, to Jameson, the protegée and book-keeper of her proud father.
They were married, and they were left alone in that picturesque old country-house. And now, strange to say, Florence grew very sad; and as Jameson sat by her, with one hand in his, and circling her waist with his arm, she began to weep bitterly.