The sunny, leafy week which followed the tender doings of Midsummer Eve brought a visitor to Fitzpiers’s door; a voice that he knew sounded in the passage. Mr. Melbury had called. At first he had a particular objection to enter the parlor, because his boots were dusty, but as the surgeon insisted he waived the point and came in.

Looking neither to the right nor to the left, hardly at Fitzpiers himself, he put his hat under his chair, and with a preoccupied gaze at the floor, he said, “I’ve called to ask you, doctor, quite privately, a question that troubles me. I’ve a daughter, Grace, an only daughter, as you may have heard. Well, she’s been out in the dew — on Midsummer Eve in particular she went out in thin slippers to watch some vagary of the Hintock maids — and she’s got a cough, a distinct hemming and hacking, that makes me uneasy. Now, I have decided to send her away to some seaside place for a change —”

“Send her away!” Fitzpiers’s countenance had fallen.

“Yes. And the question is, where would you advise me to send her?”

The timber-merchant had happened to call at a moment when Fitzpiers was at the spring-tide of a sentiment that Grace was a necessity of his existence. The sudden pressure of her form upon his breast as she came headlong round the bush had never ceased to linger with him, ever since he adopted the manoeuvre for which the hour and the moonlight and the occasion had been the only excuse. Now she was to be sent away. Ambition? it could be postponed. Family? culture and reciprocity of tastes had taken the place of family nowadays. He allowed himself to be carried forward on the wave of his desire.

“How strange, how very strange it is,” he said, “that you should have come to me about her just now. I have been thinking every day of coming to you on the very same errand.”

“Ah! — you have noticed, too, that her health ——”

“I have noticed nothing the matter with her health, because there is nothing. But, Mr. Melbury, I have seen your daughter several times by accident. I have admired her infinitely, and I was coming to ask you if I may become better acquainted with her — pay my addresses to her?”

Melbury was looking down as he listened, and did not see the air of half-misgiving at his own rashness that spread over Fitzpiers’s face as he made this declaration.

“You have — got to know her?” said Melbury, a spell of dead silence having preceded his utterance, during which his emotion rose with almost visible effect.

“Yes,” said Fitzpiers.

“And you wish to become better acquainted with her? You mean with a view to marriage — of course that is what you mean?”

“Yes,” said the young man. “I mean, get acquainted with her, with a view to being her accepted lover; and if we suited each other, what would naturally follow.”

The timber-merchant was much surprised, and fairly agitated; his hand trembled as he laid by his walking-stick. “This takes me unawares,” said he, his voice wellnigh breaking down. “I don’t mean that there is anything unexpected in a gentleman being attracted by her; but it did not occur to me that it would be you. I always said,” continued he, with a lump in his throat, “that my Grace would make a mark at her own level some day. That was why I educated her. I said to myself, ‘I’ll do it, cost what it may;’ though her mother-law was pretty frightened at my paying out so much money year after year. I knew it would tell in the end. ‘Where you’ve not good material to work on, such doings would be waste and vanity,’ I said. ‘But where you have that material it is sure to be worth while.’”

“I am glad you don’t object,” said Fitzpiers, almost wishing that Grace had not been quite so cheap for him.

“If she is willing I don’t object, certainly. Indeed,” added the honest man, “it would be deceit if I were to pretend to feel anything else than highly honored personally; and it is a great credit to her to have drawn to her a man of such good professional station and venerable old family. That huntsman-fellow little thought how wrong he was about her! Take her and welcome, sir.”

“I’ll endeavor to ascertain her mind.”

“Yes, yes. But she will be agreeable, I should think. She ought to be.”

“I hope she may. Well, now you’ll expect to see me frequently.”

“Oh yes. But, name it all — about her cough, and her going away. I had quite forgot that that was what I came about.”

“I assure you,” said the surgeon, “that her cough can only be the result of a slight cold, and it is not necessary to banish her to any seaside place at all.”

Melbury looked unconvinced, doubting whether he ought to take Fitzpiers’s professional opinion in circumstances which naturally led him to wish to keep her there. The doctor saw this, and honestly dreading to lose sight of her, he said, eagerly, ‘Between ourselves, if I am successful with her I will take her away myself for a month or two, as soon as we are married, which I hope will be before the chilly weather comes on. This will be so very much better than letting her go now.”

The proposal pleased Melbury much. There could be hardly any danger in postponing any desirable change of air as long as the warm weather lasted, and for such a reason. Suddenly recollecting himself, he said, “Your time must be precious, doctor. I’ll get home-along. I am much obliged to ye. As you will see her often, you’ll discover for yourself if anything serious is the matter.”

“I can assure you it is nothing,” said Fitzpiers, who had seen Grace much oftener already than her father knew of.

When he was gone Fitzpiers paused, silent, registering his sensations, like a man who has made a plunge for a pearl into a medium of which he knows not the density or temperature. But he had done it, and Grace was the sweetest girl alive.

As for the departed visitor, his own last words lingered in Melbury’s ears as he walked homeward; he felt that what he had said in the emotion of the moment was very stupid, ungenteel, and unsuited to a dialogue with an educated gentleman, the smallness of whose practice was more than compensated by the former greatness of his family. He had uttered thoughts before they were weighed, and almost before they were shaped. They had expressed in a certain sense his feeling at Fitzpiers’s news, but yet they were not right. Looking on the ground, and planting his stick at each tread as if it were a flag-staff, he reached his own precincts, where, as he passed through the court, he automatically stopped to look at the men working in the shed and around. One of them asked him a question about wagon-spokes.

“Hey?” said Melbury, lo............