'But it _must_ be mentioned, and at once; we must tell your parents. It
would be highly improper not to do so.'
He meant to make all sure.
'Oh, well, I suppose you are right, but it will make no difference to
papa if you had not a penny. I have heard him say so a thousand times.'
'Have you,' replied Hiram, drawing a long breath, 'have you really?'
'Indeed I have. He has always said he would prefer to see me marry a
high-minded, honorable young man, of strict integrity, without a cent in
the world, to the richest man living, if he were sordid and calculating.
Oh, he despises such persons. Now are you satisfied?'
Hiram _was_ satisfied, that is, logically; but somehow he _felt_ a hit,
and in spite of himself his countenance was clouded, and he was silent.
'I have said something to wound you. I know I have,' exclaimed Emma.
'To wound me! My angel, my'--etc., etc., etc. (the pen refuses to do its
office when I come to record Hiram's love expressions). 'How can you
think so at this moment of my greatest rapture, my most complete'--etc.,
etc., etc. (pen fails again). 'It was my intense joy and satisfaction to
learn how noble and disinterested your father is, that rendered me for
the moment speechless.'
After considerable discussion, it was arranged that Emma should be the
one to communicate to her parents the interesting fact that Hiram sought
her hand. On this occasion his courage so far failed him that he
preferred not to break the subject himself, although generally so very
capable and adroit in personal interviews.
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