letter of which I have spoken, held it up, and shook it solemnly. "What
is it?" I asked.

"It is my sentence!"

"Not of death, I hope!"

"Of marriage."

"With whom?"

"With a person I don't love."

This was serious. I stopped smiling, and begged him to explain.

"It is the singular part of my story," he said at last. "It will remind
you of an old-fashioned romance. Such as I sit here, talking in this
wild way, and tossing off provocations to destiny, my destiny is settled
and sealed. I am engaged, I am given in marriage. It's a bequest of the
past--the past I had no hand in! The marriage was arranged by my father,
years ago, when I was a boy. The young girl's father was his particular
friend; he was also a widower, and was bringing up his daughter, on his
side, in the same severe seclusion in which I was spending my days. To
this day I am unacquainted with the origin of the bond of union between
our respective progenitors. Mr. Vernor was largely engaged in business,
and I imagine that once upon a time he found himself in a financial
strait and was helped through it by my father's coming forward with a
heavy loan, on which, in his situation, he could offer no security but
his word. Of this my father was quite capable. He was a man of dogmas,
and he was sure to have a rule of life--as clear as if it had been