"My dear!" interrupted Chapman, with an air of surprise, "what do you mean? Hav'nt I been a finished husband, and a loving father?"

"You are just as good, my dear, as husbands can be made." Mrs. Chapman said this condescendingly, and with an air of admiration truly grand. "But then, you know," she said, more mildly, "there was that handsome widow you used to be so polite to, my dear. You know I detected her waving a handkerchief once. Then you said it was one you left at the house; and so I never thought of it again."

"I never let the past trouble me, my dear, never. A man of forethought, of progressive ideas, looks always ahead, and by his acts proves that he is up square with the spirit of the age. I have a new conception. Yes, my dear, a new conception. Nothing figurative about it, my dear. I have a new and grand conception, which I have been evolving in my mind for some time, and now I am getting it into a scheme which I am sure will be profitable."

"My dear husband," said Mrs. Chapman, in a strain of intense excitement, "do let us know what it is."

"Of great importance to us both," he replied, with great seriousness, as he brushed his long black hair back over his parchment-like forehead.

"I'll be bound it refers to what took place to-day between our Mattie and that young sailor. I saw it all; and you saw it all, too, my dear, and you never said a word. We never can agree on that matter, my dear, never. On everything else we can. You can't mistake what two young people mean when they go to waving handkerchiefs, and picking wild flowers in the woods. This little love matter must be stopped before it gets into a big one. Yes, it must, my dear. So fine a young woman as our daughter condescending to marry a sailor! As I said before, my dear, you know I have had experience in these matters"

"In other matters, you know, Mrs. Chapman, I have always yielded to you"

"And I have always yielded to you," resumed the anxious woman, "and never considered it a condescension. But in this I must have my own way." And Mrs. Chapman got up and walked to a window overlooking the Tappan Zee. The night was bright and starlight, and shadows were flitting and dancing over the smooth waters. The picture of the ship, with Tite waving Mattie an adieu from the forecastle, haunted her mind.

"If that ship goes to the bottom of the sea, not a tear shall I shed - not a tear!" resumed the speaker, in an agitated tone. "And I have as tender a heart as anybody. But we must elevate the family. That's laudable, you know. Nice people are very particular about these things. And you know how much there is in names. Think of elevating the family by taking a man by the name of Toodlebug into it! Think of our going to live in New York with such a name. Everybody would say Toodlebug! Toodlebug! and nobody would come to our daughter's parties." The good woman ran on in this way for several minutes, compelling her dear Chapman to keep the peace. At length she settled back into her rocking chair, and there was a pause.