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several minutes, quite silent, on opposite sides of the hearth, with folded hands and meditative countenances; but the face of the one looked like the muddy waters of the Shatemuc tossed and tumbled under a fierce wind; the other's was calm and steady as Wut-a-qut-o's brow.

"So you won't have any woman that you don't oblige to marry you!" Rufus burst out. "Ha, ha, ha!-ho, ho, ho !"

Winthrop's mouth gave the slightest good-humoured token of understanding him,-it could not be called a smile. Rufus had his laugh out, and cooled down into deeper gravity than before.

"Well!" said he,-" I'll go off to my fate, at the limitless wild of the West. It seems a rough sort of fate."

"Make your fate for yourself," said Winthrop.

"You will," said his brother. "And it will be what you will, and that's a fair one. And you will oblige anybody you have a mind to. And marry an heiress."

"Don't look much like it-things at present," said Winthrop. "I don't see the way very clear."

"As for me, I don't know what ever I shall come to," Rufus added.

"Come to bed at present," said Winthrop. "That is one

step."

"One step towards what?"

"Sleep in the first place; and after that, anything."

"What a strange creature you are, Governor! and how doubtlessly and dauntlessly you pursue your way," Rufus said sighing.

"Sighs never filled anybody's sails yet," said Winthrop. "They are the very airs of a calm."

"Calm!" said Rufus.

"A dead calm," said his brother laughing.

"I wish I had your calm," said Rufus. And with that the evening ended.

do!

CHAPTER XXI.

O what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do! not knowing what they MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

ONE morning, about these days, Mr. and Miss Haye were seated at the opposite ends of the breakfast-table. They had been there for some time, silently buttering rolls and sipping coffee, in a leisurely way on Mr. Haye's part, and an ungratified one on the part of his daughter. He was considering, also in a leisurely sort of way, the columns of the morning paper; she considering him and the paper, and at intervals knocking with her knife against the edge of her plate, a meditative and discontented knife, and an impassive and unimpressed plate. So breakfast went on till Elizabeth's cup was nearly emptied.

"Father," said she, "it is very unsociable and stupid for you to read the paper, and me to eat my breakfast alone. You might read aloud, if you must read."

Mr. Haye brought his head round from the paper long enough to swallow half a cupful of coffee.

"Where's Rose?"

"In bed, for aught I know. There is no moving her till she has a mind."

"Seems to me, it is quite as difficult to move you," said her father.

"Ay, but then I have a mind—which makes all the difference."

Mr. Haye went back to his paper and considered it till the rest of his cup of coffee was thoroughly cold. Elizabeth finished her breakfast, and sat, drawn back into herself, with arms folded, looking into the fireplace. Finding his coffee cold, Mr. Haye's attention came at length back upon his daughter.

"What do you want me to talk about?" he said.

"It don't signify, your talking about anything now," said Elizabeth. 66 Everything is cold-mind and matter together. I don't know how you'll find the coffee, father."

Mr. Haye stirred it, with a discontented look.
"Rose is late," he remarked again.
"That's nothing new," said Elizabeth.
Mr. Haye drunk his cold cupful.

"Late is her time."

You're very fond of her, Lizzie, aren't you?

"No," said Elizabeth. "I don't think I am.'

"Not fond of her!" said Mr. Haye in a very surprised tone. "No," said Elizabeth,-"I don't think I am."

"I thought you were," said her father, in a voice that spoke both chagrin and displeasure.

"What made you think so?"

"You always seemed fond of her," said Mr. Haye. "I can't have seemed so, for I never was so.

There isn't enough of her to be fond of. I talk to her, and like her after a fashion, because she is the only person near me that I can talk to -that's all."

"I am fond of her," said Mr. Haye.

It takes more to make me fond of anybody," said his daughter. "I know you are."

What does Rose want, to have the honour of your good opinion?

"O don't talk in that tone!" said Elizabeth. "I had rather you would not talk at all. You have chosen an unhappy subject. It takes a good deal to make me like anybody much, father." "What does Rose want?"

"As near as possible, everything," said Elizabeth,-"if you will have the answer.'

"What?"

"Why father, she has nothing in the world but a very pretty face."

"You grant her that," said Mr. Haye.

"Yes, I grant her that, though it is a great while since I saw it pretty. Father, I care nothing at all for any face which has nothing beneath the outside. It's a barren prospect to me, however fair the outside may be-I don't care to let my eye dwell on it."

"How do you like the prospect of your own, in the glass?
"I should be very sorry if I didn't think it had infinitely

more in it than the face we have been speaking of. It is not so beautifully tinted, nor so regularly cut; but I like it better."

"I am afraid few people will agree with you," said her father dryly.

"There's one thing," said Elizabeth,—" I sha'n't know it if they don't. But then I see my face at a disadvantage, looking stupidly at itself in the glass-I hope it does better to other people."

"I didn't know you thought quite so much of yourself," said Mr. Haye.

"I haven't told you the half," said Elizabeth, looking at him. "I am afraid I think more of myself than anybody else does, or ever will."

"If you do it so well for yourself, I'm afraid other people won't save you the trouble," said her father.

"I'm afraid you will not, by the tone in which you speak, father."

"What has set you against Rose?"

"Nothing in the world! I am not set against her. Nothing in the world but her own emptiness and impossibility of being anything like a companion to me."

"Elizabeth!"

"Father!-What's the matter?"

"How dare you talk in that manner?"

"Why father," said Elizabeth, her tone somewhat quieting as his was roused,-"I never saw the thing yet I didn't dare say, if I thought it. Why shouldn't I?"

"Because it is not true-a word of it."

"I'm sure I wish it wasn't true," said Elizabeth.

"What I

said was true. It's a sorrowful truth to me, too, for I haven't a soul to talk to that can understand me-not even you, father, it seems."

"I wish I didn't understand you," said Mr. Haye.

"It's nothing very dreadful to understand," said Elizabeth, -"what I have been saying now. I wonder how you can think so much of it. I know you love Rose better than I do." "I love her so well-" said Mr. Haye, and stopped.

"So well that what?"

"That I can hardly talk to you with temper."

"Then don't let us talk about it at all," said Elizabeth, whose own heightened colour shewed that her temper was moving. "Unhappily it is necessary," said Mr. Haye dryly.

"Why in the world is it necessary? You can't alter the matter, father, by talking;-it must stand so."

"Stand how?"

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แ Why, as it does stand-Rose and I as near as possible nothing to each other."

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Things can hardly stand so," said Mr. Haye. "You must be either less or more."

Elizabeth sat silent and looked at him. He looked at nothing but what was on his plate.

"How would you like to have Rose take your place?" "My place?" said Elizabeth.

"Yes," said Mr. Haye laconically.

"No place that I fill, could be filled by Rose," said Elizabeth, with the slightest perceptible lifting of her head and raising of her brow.

"We will try that," said Mr. Haye bitterly; "for I will put her over your head, and we will see."

"Put her where?" said Elizabeth.

"Over this house-over my establishment—at this table-in your place as the head of this family."

"You will take her for your daughter, and discard me?" said Elizabeth.

"No-I will not," said Mr. Haye, cutting a piece of beefsteak in a way that shewed him indifferent to its fate. "I will not!-I will make her my wife!—"

Elizabeth had risen from the table and now she stood on the rug before the fire, with her arms behind her, looking down at the breakfast-table and her father. Literally, looking down upon them. Her cheeks were very pale, but fires that were not heavenlit were burning somewhere within her, shining out at her eye and now and then colouring her face with a sudden flare. There was a pause. Mr. Haye tried what he could do with his beefsteak; and his daughter's countenance shewed the cloud and the flame of the volcano by turns. For awhile the father and daughter held off from each other. But Mr. Haye's breakfast gave symptoms of coming to an end.

"Father," said Elizabeth, bringing her hands in front of her and clasping them," say you did not mean that!"

"Ha!" said Mr. Haye without looking at her, and brushing the crumbs from his pantaloons.

Elizabeth waited.

"What did you mean?"

"I spoke plain enough," said he.

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