“Don't go yet; I have more to say to you,” cried he, stretching out his hands towards him. “You think, because your roguery is succeeding, that you are great and respected. Not a bit; the gentlemen won't have you, and your own sort won't have you. There's not an honest man would eat your salt,--there's not an honest girl would bear your name. There you stand, as much alone in the world as if you came out of another country, and you 're the only man in Ireland does n't see it.” Dunn darted from the room as the last words were uttered, and gained the road. So overwhelmed was he by rage and astonishment that it was some minutes ere he could remember where he was or whither he would go. “To Beldoyle,” said he to the carman, pointing in the direction of the low shore, where his father lived; “drive your best pace.” Then suddenly changing his mind, he said, “No, to town.” “Is he gone, Bella?” said Kellett, as his daughter entered. “Yes; and before I could thank him for his coming.” “I think I said enough,” said he, with a fierce laugh, which made her suddenly turn and look at him. It was all she could do to repress a sudden cry of horror; for one side of his face was distorted by palsy, and the mouth drawn all awry. “What's this here, Bella?” said he, trying to touch his cheek with his hand; “a kind of stiffness--a sort of--Eh, are you crying, darling?” “No; it was something in my eye pained me,” said she, turning away to hide her face. “Give me a looking-glass, quickly,” cried he. “No, no,” said she, forcing a laugh; “you have not shaved these two days, and you are quite neglected-look-ing. You sha'n't see yourself in such a state.” “Bring it this minute, I say,” said he, passionately, and in a voice that grew less and less articulate every moment. “Now pray be patient, dearest papa.” “Then I'll go for it myself;” and with these words he grasped the arm of the chair and tried to rise. “There, there,” said she, softly forcing him back into his seat, “I 'll fetch it at once. I wish you would be persuaded, dear papa--” began she, still holding the glass in her hands. But he snatched it rudely from her, and placed it before him. “That's what it is,” said he, at last; “handsome Paul Kellett they used to call me at Corfu. I wonder what they'd say now?” “It is a mere passing thing, a spasm of some kind.” “Ay,” said he, with a mocking laugh, to which the distortion imparted a shocking expression. “Both sides will be the same--to-morrow or next day--I know that.” She could hear no more, but, covering her face with her hands, sobbed bitterly. Kellett still continued to look at himself in the glass; and whether the contortion was produced by the malady or a passing emotion, a half-sardonic laugh was on his features as he said, “I was wrong when I said I'd never be chapfallen.” CHAPTER XXV. A CHURCHYARD.