"Yes," said she, moving, "I suppose so; but papaMr. Bold was not here to-night: do you know why not?"
"He was asked; I wrote to him myself," said the warden.
"But do you know why he did not come, papa?"
"Well, Eleanor, I could guess; but it's no use guessing at such things, my dear. What makes you look so earnest about it?"
"Oh papa, do tell me," she exclaimed, throwing her arms round him, and looking into his face; "what is it he is going to do? What is it all about? Is there any—any—any—" she didn't well know what word to use—"any danger?"
"Danger, my dear, what sort of danger?"
"Danger to you, danger of trouble, and of loss, and of Oh papa, why hav'n't you told me of all this before?"
Mr. Harding was not the man to judge harshly of any one, much less of the daughter whom he now loved better than any living creature; but still he did judge her wrongly at this moment. He knew that she loved John Bold; he fully sympathised in her affection; day after day he thought more of the matter, and, with the tender care of a loving father, tried to arrange in his own mind how matters might be so managed that his daughter's heart should not be made the sacrifice to the dispute which was likely to exist between him and Bold. Now, when she spoke to him for the first time on the subject, it was natural that he should think more of her than of himself, and that he should imagine that her own cares, and not his, were troubling her.
He stood silent before her awhile, as she gazed up into his face, and then kissing her forehead he placed her on the sofa.
"Tell me, Nelly," he said (he only called her Nelly in his kindest, softest, sweetest moods, and yet all his moods were kind and sweet), "tell me, Nelly, do you like Mr. Bold—much?"
