The Macnamara threw back his head, clasped his hands over his bosom, and gazed up to the cobwebs of the oak ceiling. “My sires--shades of the Macnamaras and the O'Dermots, visit not the iniquity of the children upon the fathers,” he exclaimed. And then there came a solemn pause which the hereditary monarch felt should impress his son deeply; but the son was not deceived into fancying that his father was overcome with emotion; he knew very well that his father was only thinking how with dignity he could extricate himself from his awkward chair, and so he was not deeply affected. “My boy, my boy,” the father murmured in a weak voice, after his apostrophe to the shades of the ceiling, “what do you mean to do? Keep nothing secret from me, Standish; I'll stand by you to the last.” “I don't mean to do anything. There is nothing to be done--at least--yet.” “What's that you say? Nothing to be done? You don't mean to say you've been thrifling with the young-woman's affection? Never shall a son of mine, and the offspring of The Macnamaras and the----” “How can you put such a question to me?” said the young man indignantly. “I throw back the insinuation in your teeth, though you are my father. I would scorn to trifle with the feelings of any lady, not to speak of Miss Gerald, who is purer than the lily that blooms----” “In the valley of Shanganagh--that's what you said in the poem, my boy; and it's true, I'm sure.” “But because you find a scrap of poetry in my writing you fancy that I forget my--my duty--my----” “Mighty sires, Standish; say the word at once, man. Well, maybe I was too hasty, my boy; and if you tell me that you don't love her now, I'll forgive all.” “Never,” cried the young man, with the vehemence of a mediaeval burning martyr. “I swear that I love her, and that it would be impossible for me ever to think of any one else.” “This is cruel--cruel!” murmured The Macnamara, still thinking how he could extricate himself from his uneasy seat. “It is cruel for a father, but it must be borne--it must be borne. If our ancient house is to degenerate to a Saxon's level, I'm not to blame. Standish, my boy, I forgive you. Take your father's hand.” He stretched out his hand, and the young man took it. The grasp of The Macnamara was fervent--it did not relax until he had accomplished the end he had in view, and had pulled himself to his feet. Standish was about to leave the room, when his father, turning his eyes away from the tattered cane-work of the chair, that now closely resembled the star-trap in a pantomime, cried: “Don't go yet, sir. This isn't to end here. Didn't you tell me that your affection was set upon this daughter of the Geralds?” “What is the use of continuing such questions?” cried the young man impatiently. The reiteration by his father of this theme--the most sacred to Standish's ears--was exasperating.