“Now don’t, Ally,” said Old John, passing his arm quietly around his daughter’s waist, and talking in the best humor imaginable, “don’t trouble yourself about David. What do you know about business? You take care of the women-servants, and see that we have tea on the table by seven o’clock exactly, for I expect the new clerk every minute. I’ll take care of David—”
“I know I shan’t like the new clerk,” said she, pouting.
“Well, who wants you to like him, little minx?” said Old John, at the same time drawing her closer to him, and giving her a hearty kiss.
“But I shall hate him,” continued she, determined to be obstinate.
“Well, hate him if you will,” replied her father, not in the least angry; “but I can tell you he is a very lively fellow, and not accustomed to be hated by the ladies. However, you had better hate him. You must reserve all your love for Harry Wilson, you know.”
“Oh, that dreadful Harry Wilson,” exclaimed Alice, struggling to throw off her father’s arm, by which he still held her in close confinement. “Pray don’t talk of him again.”
“And why not?” said Old John; “he is to be your husband, you know.” And a smile, half merry, half serious, played over his features as he said this. “His father and I were old schoolmates, and he would die of grief if he thought we were not to be brothers after all.”
“His son and I were never old schoolmates, at all events,” exclaimed Alice, still struggling, but in vain. Old John held her fast, and his merry face settled into a serious, earnest expression as he added,
“Besides, he once saved my life.”
Alice answered nothing. There was something in the manner in which he said these words, as well as in the meaning of the words themselves, which completely subdued her. The tears beamed in her beautiful dark eyes; she threw her arms round his neck and rested her head on his shoulder; her long, black locks streamed over his bosom—yet she said nothing.