"How, Bruno," said he, sternly, "I want to know what this means. Come, no shuffling; tell the truth."
Bruno's self-possession gave way entirely. "I—I—I—it's only Mr. Arling."
Mr. Bergan started. "My nephew, Bergan Arling, do you mean?"
"Yes, massa."
"What—where?"
"Out dar, under de larches, massa."
"And he—he dared to ask for my daughter?"
Mr. Bergan's voice shook with anger. Bruno tried to explain, not very coherently.
"He didn't mean no harm, massa, I'se sartain. He said her happiness and all you'se happiness, was at de stake."
"Did he!" muttered Mr. Bergan, scornfully. "Hark you, Bruno, not a word of this to anybody—to anybody, mind you! Now, go back to your dance,—I'll see Mr. Arling."