Mr. Dinwiddie sat down at a table, and wrote these lines:—
"Barbara,—Captain Arthur Penrose, of Maine, visits you in pursuance of his yesterday's promise. If you have any regard for your poor, distracted father,—if you would save me from the deepest, the direst mortification,—exert all your powers to conciliate Captain Penrose, and to detain him till I return home and relieve you. I will explain all to you hereafter. My peace of mind depends largely on your being able to do this. Urge him to call again. In haste, your father."
The Captain received this missive, bowed, and walked off in the direction of Dinwiddie's house.
Nero came to the door.
"Is Mrs. Dinwiddie in?"
"No, Cap'n, but Miss Barbara is in," said the conspiring Nero, in a tone of encouragement.
Madam, it should be remarked, was out making calls on a few leading feminine sympathizers; but she did not notice, that, wherever she went, a little man in black, with a postman's big pocket-book in his hands, followed, as if busily employed in delivering letters.
Captain Penrose sent up his card, together with the missive he was charged with. Nero returned the next minute, and ushered him into the drawing-room, assuring him, with overflowing suavity, that Miss Barbara would be down in a minute. It was with profound agitation that that young lady read her father's note. What could be the matter?
She looked in the glass,—combed back her profuse flaxen hair so as to expose her fair temples in the most approved fashion of the hour,—took a little tea-rose from the silver vase on her bureau,—and then, with a beating heart, stepped down the broad, low stairs into the drawing-room.
Captain Penrose was examining an exquisite painting of an iceberg, which hung on the wall over the piano. He turned to Barbara, bowed gravely, and said,—