"What is it?" he questioned.
"Your daughter," the youth faltered; "I love her; she will not marry me—will you help me?"
"My daughter! She is a little child," the father replied, smiling.
"She is old enough to know love," the young man answered, smiling too.
"But who are you?"
"My father was Gerald Donaldson."
"A good fellow, a dear fellow—and he is dead?"
"He died a month after you left India—five years ago."
"Only five years, and they so long, so long!"
"I am not badly off," the young man pursued. "I have two thousand a year"—he smiled—"and expectations. I have plenty of friends who can tell you all you wish to know about me personally."
Angela's father looked upon him. "You have a good face. It is worth all the credentials in the world. I could trust you. Where have I seen you before?"
"I have been introduced to you four times," the young man said, laughing. "But you
