“We will settle it now, sir, if you please,” said Mark, in a firm, determined tone. “I hope you don’t quite overlook the fact, in your sense of your own grandeur, that my future happiness is involved in the event we are discussing, or that I am, therefore, entitled to a voice in the disposal of my own person; and while you are taking upon yourself to decide who shall not become a member of your family, you do not, I trust, forget that your decision may help to diminish its number.” Old Wilton turned a fierce and angry glance upon his son. “I do not forget that you are my son, and, while I live, dependent upon me,” he exclaimed, with enraged bitterness. “While such a condition of your affairs remains unchanged, I will control such suicidal acts as you meditate. I will compel you to obey me so long as I am master of your purse-strings.” “Sir, sir!” cried Mark, with strong emotion, “the lesson of poverty and wretchedness has been lost upon you. You have passed through the furnace, yet your old dross clings to you. Listen to me--I am not dependent upon you; this strong right arm and Heaven’s bounteous generosity enabled me to wrest from the earth’s bosom a sum which to men with moderate wishes is an ample fortune. This money I brought to England to lift you and my sister out of your beggary, if you had needed its aid. You have not required it, and it yet stands in my name; I will henceforth use it for myself, leaving you to enjoy what you possess, but taking care to reap from my own wealth that happiness which you so selfishly deny me.” He turned to move away, but the old man called to him, sharply-- “Mark, Mark, what is it you would do?” Mark, faced round and gazed upon him with steadfast eyes. With unfaltering voice, he said-- “Make Lotte Clinton my wife.” “Know you at what cost?” cried the old man, with inflamed eyes and clenched hands. “Your favour, and my stipend,” replied Mark, firmly, “I sacrifice the two, but I regain my independence, and take to my heart the only woman I shall ever love.” “You have omitted one thing, one tremendous item,” ejaculated old Wilton, with heaving chest--“my curse!” “No,” cried Mark, in a clear firm tone, “that will never leave your lips. Sir, I have seen in my short life that curses, like birds, come home to roost. Do not you try the experiment.” Mark once more turned to quit the spot. “Mark, boy, wretch!” shrieked his father, “pause--you--you will not--dare--dare not marry the artful, designing, infamous creature who had infatuated--cozened you--” “When you speak of her, use gentler terms, sir,” fiercely interrupted Mark. “She is entitled to the profoundest respect of the noblest man alive, and I will suffer no one to breathe a contumelious word respecting her in my hearing.” “If you persist, my bitterest curse shall cling to your footsteps, and drag you down through palsying vice and debasing misery to perdition!” almost yelled Wilton.