“And there is but one answer to give, Kate,” said he, sharply. “I will not consent. He who now assumes the uncle----” “He _is_ my uncle, Sir,” said she, haughtily. “It is scarcely generous to deny me whatever good blood I can lay claim to.” “My child, my dear child, if you but knew how I love whatever loves you, you would not have uttered this reproach.” “My mother’s sister’s husband is surely my uncle,” said she, coldly, and not heeding his protestation. “I never heard that a mésalliance could cancel the ties of kindred.” “None ever said so, Kate.” “You said as much, Sir; you said, ‘assumes the uncle!’” “I meant in a different sense, my dear child. I meant, that he wanted to impose an authority which mere relationship would not give him.” “Read his letter again, Sir--pray read it.” “No, my child; it has given me too much pain already.” “I think you are not just to him, Gardy,” said she caressingly. “May I read it to you? Well, a part of it?” “Once more, no, Kate. His argument is, that as he is now childless, he has the right to claim your love and affection, to replace what he has lost; that, as your nearest of kin, you cannot refuse him; and that, if you do--mark the insinuation--the reasons will be, perhaps, based on considerations apart from all affection.” “I think he had the right to say that,” said she, firmly. “There was one thing, however, he had no right to say,” said the old man, haughtily; “that to continue to reside under my roof was to challenge the opinion of a world never slow to be censorious.” “And there, again, I think he was not wrong.” “Then you love me no longer, Kate!” said he, with intense emotion. “Not love you--not love you! Then, what do I love? Is it nothing to know that every happiness I have I owe to you--that all the enjoyment of a life more bright than a fairy tale, comes from you? That from your generous indulgence I have learned to think mere existence something like ecstasy, and awake each day as to a fête?” “Say on, dearest, say on; your words thrill through me like a gentle music.” “He does not offer me these; but he says, ‘Come to what you shall call your home, and never blush to say so.’” “It is too insolent!” “He says, ‘As my daughter by adoption, you shall bear my name.’ I am to be a Luttrell--Kate Luttrell of Arran!” “And for this poor name you would barter all my love, all my affection, all my hope?” “It is a great and noble name, Sir! There were Lords of Arran called Luttrell in the thirteenth century!” “You have told me of them,” said he, peevishly. “Too proud and too haughty to accept titles, Sir.” “I have a name that the first in the land would not scorn,” said he, in a voice of blended pride and anger; “and my fortune is certainly the equal of a barren rock in the Atlantic.” “You are not my uncle, Sir,” said she, softly. “No, Kate; but----” He stopped, the colour fled from his cheek, and he seemed unable to continue. “Has any tender love for you equalled mine?”