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
written out in his beautiful copper-plate hand--adapted to the conduct of
a gentleman toward a friend in pecuniary embarrassment. What is more, he
was sure to adhere to it. Mr. Vernor, I believe, got on his feet, paid
his debt, and vowed my father an eternal gratitude. His little daughter
was the apple of his eye, and he pledged himself to bring her up to be
the wife of his benefactor's son. So our fate was fixed, parentally, and
we have been educated for each other. I have not seen my betrothed since
she was a very plain-faced little girl in a sticky pinafore, hugging a
one-armed doll--of the male sex, I believe--as big as herself. Mr.
Vernor is in what is called the Eastern trade, and has been living these
many years at Smyrna. Isabel has grown up there in a white-walled
garden, in an orange grove, between her father and her governess.
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