“No son of mine will be let sneak out of an affair like this,” said the hereditary monarch. “We may be poor, sir, poor as a bogtrotter's dog----” “And we are,” interposed Standish bitterly. “But we have still the memories of the grand old times to live upon, and the name of Macnamara was never joined with anything but honour. You love that daughter of the Geralds--you've confessed it; and though the family she belongs to is one of these mushroom growths that's springing up around us in three or four hundred years--ay, in spite of the upstart family she belongs to, I'll give my consent to your happiness. We mustn't be proud in these days, my son, though the blood of kings--eh, where do ye mean to be going before I've done?” “I thought you had finished.” “Did you? well, you're mistaken. You don't stir from here until you've promised me to make all the amends in your power to this daughter of the Geralds.” “Amends? I don't understand you.” “Don't you tell me you love her?” The refrain which was so delightful to the young man's ears when he uttered it alone by night under the pure stars, sounded terrible when reiterated by his father. But what could he do--his father was now upon his feet? “What is the use of profaning her name in this fashion?” cried Standish. “If I said I loved her, it was only when you accused me of it and threatened to turn me out of the house.” “And out of the house you'll go if you don't give me a straightforward answer.” “I don't care,” cried Standish doggedly. “What is there here that should make me afraid of your threat? I want to be turned out. I'm sick of this place.” “Heavens! what has come over the boy that he has taken to speaking like this? Are ye demented, my son?” “No such thing,” said Standish. “Only I have been thinking for the past few days over my position here, and I have come to the conclusion that I couldn't be worse off.” “You've been thinking, have you?” asked The Macnamara contemptuously. “You depart so far from the traditions of your family? Well, well,” he continued in an altered tone, after a pause, “maybe I've been a bad father to you, Standish, maybe I've neglected my duty; maybe----” here The Macnamara felt for his pocket-handkerchief, and having found it, he waved it spasmodically, and was about to throw himself into his chair when he recollected its defects and refrained, even though he was well aware that he was thereby sacrificing much of the dramatic effect up to which he had been working. “No, father; I don't want to say that you have been anything but good to me, only----” “But I say it, my son,” said The Macnamara, mopping his brows earnestly with his handkerchief. “I've been a selfish old man, haven't I, now?” “No, no, anything but that. You have only been too good. You have given me all I ever wanted--except----” “Except what? Ah, I know what you mean--except money. Ah, your reproach is bitter--bitter; but I deserve it all, I do.”