The vehemence of his utterance had gone on increasing as he spoke, till at the end the last words were given with almost a scream of passion. “I must say, Fagan,” replied my father, calmly, “that you form a very humble, I trust a very unfair, estimate of the habits of my house, not to say of my own feelings. However, we'll not dispute the matter. Good evening to you.” “Good evening, sir; I 'm sorry I was so warm; I hope I have said nothing that could offend you.” “Not when you did n't mean offence, believe me, Fagan. I repeat my hope that the friends and acquaintances with whom I live are not the underbred and ill-mannered class you think them; beyond that I have nothing to say. Good evening.” Probably no amount of discussion and argument on the subject could so palpably have convinced Fagan of the vast superiority of a man of good manners over one of inferior breeding as did the calm and gentleman-like quietude of my father's bearing, in contradistinction to his own passionate outbreak. “One moment, sir,--one moment,” cried he, laying his hand on my father's arm; “you really believe that one humbly born as Polly, the daughter of a man in my condition, would be received amongst the high and titled of Dublin without a scornful allusion to whence she came,--without a sneer at her rank in life?” “If I thought anything else, Fagan, Ï should be dishonored in making this request of you.” “She shall go, sir,--she shall go,” cried Fagan. “Thanks for the confidence, Fagan; I know you 'd rather trust me with half your fortune without a scratch of my pen in return.” Fagan turned away his head; but a motion of his hand across his eyes showed how he felt the speech. To obviate the awkwardness of the moment, my father entered upon the details of the journey, for which it was arranged that Fagan was to send his daughter to Bray, where a carriage from Castle Carew would be in waiting to convey her the remainder of the way. These points being settled, my father once again thanked him for his compliance, and departed.