"Yes, dear papa!" muttered old Walker; "pretty girl you are; give a party to crush the interloper; faint when he gets his first patient; watch him from your bow-window like a cat watches a mouse, and then—marry him."
"But, my dear papa, is not this the surest way to destroy the opposition?" said happy Maria.
"Yes! because we can not crush him, we take him as a partner," grumbled old Walker; "never heard of such a thing; nice thing it is to have children who take part with your enemies."
Nobody made any reply, and after a little more faint attempts at fault-finding, the old doctor fell asleep.
About six months later, after a journey to Scotland, which made me lose sight of Maria, I drove up the streets of C——, after my return to my native Greenwich, which, with its beautiful park, its Blackheath, its splendid and glorious monument of English greatness, its historic associations, I dearly love, and eager to see the dear girl, never stopped until I was in her arms.
"How you have grown," said she, with a sweet and happy smile.
"Grown! indeed; do you take me for a child?" cried I, laughing. "And you! how well and pleased you look; always at the bow-window, too; I saw you as I came up."
"I am very seldom there now," said she, with a strange smile.
"Why?"
"Because I live over the way," replied she, still smiling.