“Here all my plans of happiness and improvement are again overturned: Dora cannot improve me, can give me no motive for making myself any thing better than what I am. Polish my manners! no, when she has such rude, odious manners herself; much changed for the worse--a hundred times more agreeable when she was a child. Lost to me she is every way--no longer my playfellow--no chance of her being my friend. Her good father hoped she would be a sister to me--very sorry I should be to have such a sister: then I am to consider her as a married woman--pretty wife she will make! I am convinced she cares no more for that man she is going to marry than I do--marrying merely to be married, to manage her own affairs, and have her own way--so childish!--or marrying merely to get an establishment--so base! How women, and such young creatures, _can_ bring themselves to make these venal matches--I protest Peggy Sheridan’s worth a hundred of such. Moriarty may think himself a happy fellow--Suzy--Jenny, any body--only with dress and manner a little different--is full as good in reality. I question whether they’d give themselves, without liking, to any White Connal in their own rank, at the first offer, for a few sheep, or a cow, or to have their own way.” Such was the summing up of the topics of invective, which, during a two hours’ walk, had come round and round continually in Ormond’s indignant fancy. He went plucking off the hawthorn blossoms in his path, till at one desperate tug, that he gave to a branch which crossed his way, he opened to a bank that sloped down to the lake. At a little distance below him he saw old Sheelah sitting under a tree rocking herself backwards and forwards; while Dora stood motionless opposite to her, with her hand covering her eyes, and her head drooping. They neither of them saw Ormond, and he walked on pursuing his own path; it led close behind the hedge to the place where they were, so close, that the sounds “Willastrew! Willastrew!” from Old Sheelah, in her funereal tone, reached his ear, and then the words, “Oh, my heart’s darling! so young to be a sacrifice--But what next did he say?” Ormond’s curiosity was strongly excited; but he was too honourable to listen or to equivocate with conscience: so to warn them that some one was within hearing, he began to whistle clear and strong. Both the old woman and the young lady started. “Murder!” cried Sheelah, “it’s Harry Ormond. Oh! did he overhear any thing--or all, think ye?” “Not I,” answered Ormond, leaping over the hedge directly, and standing firm before them: “I _overheard_ nothing--I _heard_ only your last words, Sheelah--you spoke so loud I could not help it. They are as safe with me as with yourself--but don’t speak so loud another time, if you are talking secrets; and whatever you do, never suspect me of listening--I am incapable of _that_, or any other baseness.”