“And you don’t know of any one else whom you would prefer for a son-in-law!”
“Always had my eye upon you, Reuben.”
“But suppose you have been imposed upon; suppose that I am not your nephew after all!”
“Ho, ho! imposed upon—not my nephew! don’t talk to me—imposed upon, pooh, don’t I know the Leyton look—all but the red hair—I wonder where you got that from!”
“I bought it of Frizeur and Frizette, French barbers, Broadway, New York, it is a capital wig, don’t you think so?” replied the young man, coolly taking it off, and handing it for the inspection of Mr. Leyton.
“Hey! why, what’s all this—who are you—what does this mean?” exclaimed Mr. Leyton, starting up in astonishment, wig in hand, and staring at the fine looking youth with dark-brown locks, who was now bending so tenderly over Lucy.
“Mr. Leyton, why should I hesitate to confess who I am,” was the answer, “since you have already assured me of your affection, and of your willingness to bestow upon me this dear hand. My name is Edward Bartine.”
“Bartine—Bartine—why, that is the same fellow—”
“That you was going to try your new raw-hide upon, my dear sir!”
“Hum, and if I had it here I would try it now!”