“Is it serious?” said the Doctor.

“Very serious, father.”

Her father was silent a moment. “Mr. Townsend ought to have told me.”

“He means to tell you to-morrow.”

“After I know all about it from you? He ought to have told me before. Does he think I didn’t care—because I left you so much liberty?”

“Oh no,” said Catherine; “he knew you would care. And we have been so much obliged to you for—for the liberty.”

The Doctor gave a short laugh. “You might have made a better use of it, Catherine.”

“Please don’t say that, father,” the girl urged softly, fixing her dull and gentle eyes upon him.

He puffed his cigar awhile, meditatively. “You have gone very fast,” he said at last.

“Yes,” Catherine answered simply; “I think we have.”

Her father glanced at her an instant, removing his eyes from the fire. “I don’t wonder Mr. Townsend likes you. You are so simple and so good.”

“I don’t know why it is—but he does like me. I am sure of that.”

“And are you very fond of Mr. Townsend?”

“I like him very much, of course—or I shouldn’t consent to marry him.”

“But you have known him a very short time, my dear.”

“Oh,” said Catherine, with some eagerness, “it doesn’t take long to like a person—when once you begin.”

“You must have begun very quickly. Was it the first time you saw him—that night at your aunt’s party?”

“I don’t know, father,” the girl answered. “I can’t tell you about that.”

“Of course; that’s your own affair. You will have observed that I have acted on that principle. I have not interfered, I have left you your liberty, I have remembered that you are no longer a little girl—that you have arrived at years of discretion.”

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