_Old McB._ There it is. This is the way the poor fathers is always to be trated. They to give all, daughter and all, and get nothing at all, not their choice even of the man, the villain that’s to rob ‘em of all--without thanks even; and of all the plinty of bachelors there are in the parish for the girl that has money, that daughter will go and pick and choose out the very man the father mislikes beyond all others, and then it’s “_Oh! if I could help it_!”--Asy talking! _Honor._ But, dear father, wasn’t it more than talk, what I did?--Oh, won’t you listen to me? _Old McB_ I’ll not hear ye; for if you’d a grain o spirit in your mane composition, Honor, you would take your father’s part, and not be putting yourself under Catty’s feet--the bad-tongued woman, that hates you, Honor, like poison. _Honor._ If she does hate me, it’s all through love of her own-- _Old McB._ Son--ay--that she thinks too good for you--for _you_, Honor; you, the Lily of Lismore--that might command the pride of the country. Oh! Honor dear, don’t be lessening yourself; but be a proud girl, as you ought, and my own Honor. _Honor._ Oh, when you speak so kind! _Old McB._ And I beg your pardon, if I said a cross word; for I know you’ll never think of him more, and no need to lave home at all for his sake. It would be a shame in the country, and what would Mrs. Carver herself think? _Honor._ She thinks well of it, then. _Old McB._ Then whatever she thinks, she sha’n’t have my child from me! tho’ she’s a very good lady, and a very kind lady, too. But see now, Honor--have done with love, for it’s all foolishness; and when you come to be as ould as I am, you’ll think so too. The shadows goes all one way, till the middle of the day, and when that is past, then all the t’other way; and so it is with love, in life--stay till the sun is going down with you. _Honor._ Then it would be too late to be thinking of love. _Old McB._ And too airly now, and there’s no good time, for it’s all folly. I’ll ax you, will love set the potatoes?--will love make the rent?--or will love give you a jaunting car?--as to my knowledge, another of your bachelors would. _Honor._ Oh, don’t name him, father. _Old McB._ Why not--when it’s his name that would make a lady of you, and there’d be a rise in life, and an honour to your family? _Honor._ Recollect it was he that would have dishonoured my family, in me, if he could. _Old McB._ But he repints now; and what can a man do but repint, and offer to make honourable restitution, and thinking of marrying, as now, Honor dear;--is not that a condescension of he, who’s a sort of a jantleman? _Honor._ A sort, indeed--a bad sort. _Old McB._ Why, not jantleman _born_, to be sure. _Honor._ Nor _bred._ _Old McB._ Well, there’s many that way, neither born nor bred, but that does very well in the world; and think what it would be to live in the big shingled house, in Ballynavogue, with him! _Honor._ I’d rather live here with you, father.