"But do you want her? Do you want to marry her?" she asked, in still more of a scolding tone.
"Oh!—ah!—yes, madam," said Tom, attempting to win the old woman by a fine speech; "I am exceedingly proud to call myself an admirer of your beautiful niece; and I have indulged the hope that we might find our tastes congenial to each other, and our hearts sympathetic. May I count, dear madam, on your influence with Miss Gertrude?"
"No, you can 't; and more than that, you can 't have her. So, no more of that. You are the third this week!"
"Good gracious! the third what, ma'am?"
"No matter what; you can 't have her. You understand, do n't you?"
"Y—yes," said Tom, "I suppose I do."
"Very well, then—no offense meant," said Aunt Becky, now trying to modify what might seem harsh in her language, by a touch of politeness, but who still spoke in the same high key. "Wo n't you sit down?"
"No, I thank you," muttered Tom, now decidedly crest-fallen; "I rather think it is time for me to go."
"Good night, then," said Becky, following him to the door, as closely as if he had been a burglar. "Take care of the dog!"
"The deuce!" said Tom to himself, clutching his cane as he walked off the stoop. "Is there a dog to be escaped too? I should n't wonder if they should set him on me!" and he quickened his step down the lane that led to the highway, and was soon out of sight of the old farm-house, without even turning to take a last look at the solitary light which gleamed like a beacon from Getty's room. Alas! alas! no beacon of hope for him!
