“That’s what I want so much that I want you to go on. Peace! I trust in God we shall both have it one day, SOMEWHEN, as you say. Have you got this peace so plentifully now that you are satisfied as you are? You will never get it but by going on.” “I do not think there is any good got in stirring a puddle. Let by-gones be by-gones. You make a mistake, sir, in rousing an anger which I would willingly let sleep.” “Better a wakeful anger, and a wakeful conscience with it, than an anger sunk into indifference, and a sleeping dog of a conscience that will not bark. To have ceased to be angry is not one step nearer to your daughter. Better strike her, abuse her, with the chance of a kiss to follow. Ah, Thomas, you are like Jonas with his gourd.” “I don’t see what that has to do with it.” “I will tell you. You are fierce in wrath at the disgrace to your family. Your pride is up in arms. You don’t care for the misery of your daughter, who, the more wrong she has done, is the more to be pitied by a father’s heart. Your pride, I say, is all that you care about. The wrong your daughter has done, you care nothing about; or you would have taken her to your arms years ago, in the hope that the fervour of your love would drive the devil out of her and make her repent. I say it is not the wrong, but the disgrace you care for. The gourd of your pride is withered, and yet you will water it with your daughter’s misery.” “Go out of my shop,” he cried; “or I may say what I should be sorry for.” I turned at once and left him. I found young Tom round the corner, leaning against the wall, and reading his Virgil. “Don’t speak to your father, Tom,” I said, “for a while. I’ve put him out of temper. He will be best left alone.” He looked frightened. “There’s no harm done, Tom, my boy. I’ve been talking to him about your sister. He must have time to think over what I have said to him.” “I see, sir; I see.” “Be as attentive to him as you can.” “I will, sir.”