“Out of the world clean! Poor fellow, broke his neck with that horse he could never manage--on Sunday last. I left him for dead Sunday night--found him dead Monday morning--came off straight with the news to you.” “Dead!” repeated Corny and Harry, looking at one another. “Heaven forbid!” said Corny, “that I should--” “Heaven forbid!” repeated Harry; “but--” “But good morning to you both, then,” said O’Tara: “shake hands either way, and I’ll condole or congratulate to-morrow as the case may be, with more particulars if required.” O’Tara ran off, saying he would be back again soon; but he had great business to do. “I told the father last night.” “I am no hypocrite,” said Corny. “Rest to the dead and all their faults! White Connal is out of my poor Dora’s way, and I am free from my accursed promise!” Then clasping his hands, “Praised be Heaven for _that_!--Heaven is too good to me!--Oh, my child! how unworthy White Connal of her!--Thank Heaven on my knees, with my whole heart, thank Heaven that I am not forced to the sacrifice!--My child, my darling Dora, she is free!--Harry Ormond, my dear boy, I’m free,” cried O’Shane, embracing Harry with all the warmth of paternal affection. Ormond returned that embrace with equal warmth, and with a strong sense of gratitude: but was his joy equal to O’Shane’s? What were his feelings at this moment? They were in such confusion, such contradiction, he could scarcely tell. Before he heard of White Connal’s death, at the time when he was throwing pebbles into the lake, he desired nothing so much as to be able to save Dora from being sacrificed to that odious marriage; he thought, that if he were not bound in honour to his benefactor, he should instantly make that offer of his hand and heart to Dora, which would at once restore her to health, and happiness, and fulfil the wishes of her kind, generous father. But now, when all obstacles seemed to vanish--when his rival was no more--when his benefactor declared his joy at being freed from his promise--when he was embraced as O’Shane’s _son_, he did not feel joy: he was surprised to find it; but he could not. Now that he could marry Dora, now that her father expected that he should, he was not clear that he wished it himself. Quick as obstacles vanished, objections recurred: faults which he had formerly seen so strongly, which of late compassion had veiled from his view, reappeared; the softness of manner, the improvement of temper, caused by love, might be transient as passion. Then her coquetry--her frivolity. She was not that superior kind of woman which his imagination had painted, or which his judgment could approve of in a wife. How was he to explain this confusion of feeling to Corny? Leaning on his arm, he walked on towards the house. He saw Corny, smiling at his own meditations, was settling the match, and anticipating the joy to all he loved. Harry sighed, and was painfully silent.