“No. But she is my child—my only child—and I love her better than I love my life.”
Light kindled in the old man’s face, and a quiver of excitement was in every nerve. It was only by an effort that he refrained from giving way to the most extravagant praises of Dora, who sat, with her eyes meekly cast upon the floor.
On the next day, the stranger called again, and found Dora, as at the previous visit, with her father. This time he spoke to the maiden in a familiar, yet respectful way. Every look he directed toward her was one of admiration; yet not a glance of this character escaped the watchful eyes of her father.
From the first Mark Stilling regarded the stranger with especial favor. After the meeting with Dora it was settled in the old man’s mind that fortune was at length to crown with joy his dearest wish in life. All suspicion was lulled to rest in his mind. The fact that the stranger withheld his name, but confirmed him in the belief that he was either a nobleman in disguise, or connected with some wealthy and distinguished family at home.
Week followed week, and the stranger came every day to mark the progress of the plate, the execution of which he did not countermand. He never staid over an hour at a time, and that was mostly spent with Dora, whose musical abilities he highly praised, and whom he always asked to play for him. The little parlor of the engraver was on a different floor from that on which he worked, and so, while playing for the stranger, Dora was always alone with him.
Stilling was in no way surprised when the stranger asked the hand of his daughter in marriage. Dora was born to be a lady, and now had come the fufillment of her destiny. The poor old man’s mind was so infirm that it could not go beyond this simple idea. No doubt came to trouble him; no suspicion disturbed his happy dream. More than the stranger told him he believed; for as to who he was, or to what station Dora would be elevated, he was silent. But Stilling asked nothing on this head. He believed all he wished to believe. The offer for his child’s hand he felt to be a noble offer, and he yielded his fullest consent.
And so Dora was married to the stranger. But not until five minutes before the ceremony was performed, did Stilling know that his name was Edwards. The marriage took place in Stilling’s little parlor. After the rite was over, and the minister had retired, the bridegroom took the old man’s hand, and said to him, as he pointed to the finished plate containing the head of Dora.
“That, father, is your last work. You can rest now after so many years of labor. Come, there is a carriage at the door; we will go to our new home.”
Stilling was half bewildered, yet happy. Without a pause or objection, he suffered his children to take him to another home. That home was really a modest one; but in the eyes of the fond old man it was little less than a palace.
On the morning after the marriage, the moustache of young Edwards disappeared, and he went forth daily from that time and engaged in his regular business. But the engraver, who now began to sink rapidly both in mind and body, dreamed not that Dora’s husband was only a clerk, whose yearly income fell below a thousand dollars.