“And how has he been reduced to this?” said Lord Colambre. “Did he not formerly live with gentlemen, his equals, in his own country; his contemporaries? Men of the first station and character, whom I met in Dublin, spoke of him in a manner that gratified the heart of his son: he was respectable and respected, at his own home; but when he was forced away from that home, deprived of his objects and his occupations, compelled to live in London, or at watering-places, where he could find no employments that were suitable to him--set down, late in life, in the midst of strangers, to him cold and reserved--himself too proud to bend to those who disdained him as an Irishman--is he not more to be pitied than blamed for--yes, I, his son, must say the word--the degradation which has ensued? And do not the feelings, which have this moment forced him to leave the room, show of what he is capable? Oh, mother!” cried Lord Colambre, throwing himself at Lady Clonbrony’s feet, “restore my father to himself! Should such feelings be wasted?--No; give them again to expand in benevolent, in kind, useful actions; give him again to his tenantry, his duties, his country, his home; return to that home yourself, dear mother! leave all the nonsense of high life--scorn the impertinence of these dictators of fashion, who, in return for all the pains we take to imitate, to court them--in return for the sacrifice of health, fortune, peace of mind--bestow sarcasm, contempt, ridicule, and mimicry!” “Oh, Colambre! Colambre! mimicry--I’ll never believe it.” “Believe me--believe me, mother; for I speak of what I know. Scorn them--quit them! Return to an unsophisticated people--to poor, but grateful hearts, still warm with the remembrance of your kindness, still blessing you for favours long since conferred, ever praying to see you once more. Believe me, for I speak of what I know--your son has heard these prayers, has felt these blessings. Here! at my heart felt, and still feel them, when I was not known to be your son, in the cottage of the widow O’Neil.” “Oh, did you see the widow O’Neil! and does she remember me?” said Lady Clonbrony. “Remember you! and you, Miss Nugent! I have slept in the bed--I would tell you more, but I cannot.” “Well! I never should have thought they would have remembered me so long! poor people!” said Lady Clonbrony. “I thought all in Ireland must have forgotten me, it is now so long since I was at home.” “You are not forgotten in Ireland by any rank, I can answer for that. Return home, my dearest mother--let me see you once more among your natural friends, beloved, respected, happy!” “Oh, return! let us return home!” cried Miss Nugent, with a voice of great emotion. “Return, let us return home! My beloved aunt, speak to us! say that you grant our request!” She kneeled beside Lord Colambre, as she spoke. “Is it possible to resist that voice, that look?” thought Lord Colambre.