“Well, madam!” he exclaimed, throwing his hat down with a thump into a chair, and tramping up and down the floor. “_Here’s_ a pretty state of affairs!” “Mr. Clifton, you are excited.” “Yes, madam, I AM excited!” interrupted the old man—“very _much_ excited, madam! Very much excited, _indeed_, madam! Where is Archer Clifton? tell me that!” “Mr. Clifton, sit down and compose yourself!” “Compose myself! Compose myself with a prospect of three hundred people pouring into my house to-night, each one of them agape to see a wedding, and to have to tell them there will be no wedding!” “Mr. Clifton, you can’t regret this circumstance more than I do!” “I _don’t_ regret it at all, ma’am! I rejoice at it, ma’am! I congratulate myself and my daughter, ma’am! But I’ll have satisfaction, ma’am! I’ll have satisfaction, ma’am!” said the old man, wiping the perspiration from his red face. “Satisfaction for what you _rejoice_ at, Mr. Clifton?” inquired the lady, smiling at his unreasonable anger with herself. “I’ll—_yes_—I’ll have satisfaction, ma’am!” “From whom? From me? Do you intend to call me out as my son’s representative? Do you wish to compel me to fight a duel; or to make an apology—which?” inquired the lady, coolly. “Dem it, mem, I’ll—I’ll have satisfaction,” exclaimed the old man, growing shorter and shorter in his syllables. “I’ll—I’ll write to the Colonel of the regiment! I’ll—I’ll make the matter known to the Major-General of the Army! I’ll—yes, dem-me! I’ll go to Washington and tell the President! I’ll have that young rascal cashiered, and broken and dismissed from the service!” “What! _all three_! Why, that is passing cruel! Quite as bad as being killed and murdered, and mortally wounded!” said the lady, smiling at his insane vehemence. “Dem it, mem! don’t take my words up!” he exclaimed, stamping up and down the floor, and then breaking out into vituperative abuse of Archer Clifton, all addressed to Mrs. Clifton, who, though becoming very much agitated, now preserved a dignified silence. “Mr. Clifton forgets that he is a man, and that he speaks to a woman!” said a stern, but low-toned voice. And the old gentleman turned to see Kate Kavanagh, ‘severe in youthful beauty,’ standing within the door; yes, in _beauty_, for her slight figure was drawn gracefully up—her bosom heaving, her fine head erected, her cheeks crimson, and her eyes intensely brilliant with the just indignation that moved her soul, as she walked straight up to Mrs. Clifton, and said— “Dearest lady, allow me—_do_ allow me to attend you to your own room, and be your substitute here, in waiting upon Mr. Clifton.” “No, Kate—no, my dear girl. I have to talk rationally to the man as soon as he comes to his senses,” replied the lady. “_Who is_ that girl?” inquired the old gentleman, not recognizing Kate under the new aspect—or affecting not to do so. “Who _is_ that girl, Mrs. Clifton?” he repeated, while the lady gazed fondly on her protégé.