vehement to fierceness, demanding his daughter Rebecca to wife.
Clinton was taken completely by surprise. Like most of those who daily see a child growing up before them, he had not calculated her years, and had never yet thought of Rebecca as of a woman. Though often, in some vague futurity, he had indulged in romance about her fortunes, better justified by her grace and loveliness than by the circumstances under which they were expanding; yet, certainly, the future he had imagined for her was not as the bride of Richard Vernon.
To balance these dreams there arose, on the instant, the many advantages of the proposal—her forlorn and desolate situation—and the high character of the man who now offered heart and home. Clinton gasped for breath, and gave a thankful consent.
At this moment Rebecca entered; but, alas! the proposal received a surprised, almost disdainful, refusal. As yet she knew too little of the worth of worldly advantages to estimate his disinterestedness at its value. Vernon left the house indignant and disappointed, but with less of anger and more of hope than Rebecca suspected. The truth is, he pitied her as a silly child, whose head was filled with old romances, and laid all the blame on her father’s weak indulgence—an error he purposed to remedy with all convenient speed.
A sudden access of illness in Mr. Clinton made an
