"Ay, lad, do, an thou wilt," replied the old man; "Rover's wiser nor we be--a dog 'll scent a friend, when a man would'nt know un." Rover still continued his low importunate whine, and began to scratch against the door. The lad threw it open--the dog brushed past him in an instant, and his quick, short, continuous yelping, expressed his immoderate joy and recognition. "Hollo! where be'st thee, Bill?" said the young peasant, stepping over the threshold. "Come, none of thee tricks upon travellers, Master Bill; I zee thee beside the rick yon!" and quitting the door for half a minute, he again hastily entered the cot. The rich colour of robust health had fled from his cheeks--his lips quivered--and he looked like one bereft of his senses, or under the influence of some frightful apparition. The dame rose up--her work fell from trembling hands-- "What's the matter?" said she. "What's frighted thee, lad?" asked the old man, rising. "Oh! feyther!--oh! mother!"--exclaimed he, drawing them hastily on one side and whispering something in a low, and almost inaudible voice. The old woman raised her hands in supplication and tottered to her chair while the Cotter, bursting out into a paroxysm of violent rage, clutched his son's arm, and exclaimed in a loud voice: "Make fast the door, boy, an thou'lt not have my curse on thee!--I tell 'ee, she shan't come hither!--No--never--never;--there's poison in her breath--a' will spurn her from me!--A pest on her!--What; wilt not do my bidding?" "O! feyther, feyther!" cried the young peasant, whose heart seemed overcharged with grief, "It be a cold, raw night--ye wou'dna kick a cur from the door to perish in the storm! Doant 'ee be hot and hasty, feyther, thou art not uncharitable--On me knees!"-- "Psha!" exclaimed the enraged father, only exasperated by his remonstrances. "Whoy talk 'ee to me, son--I am deaf--deaf!--Mine own hand shall bar the door agen her!"--adding with bitterness--"let her die!"--and stepping past his prostrate son, was about to execute his purpose--when, a young girl, whose once gay and flimsy raiment was drenched and stained, and torn by the violence of the storm, appeared at the door. The old man recoiled with a shudder--she was as pale as death--and her trembling limbs seemed scarcely able to support her--a profusion of light brown hair hung dishevelled and in disorder about her neck and shoulders, and added to her forlorn appearance. She stretched forth her arms and pronounced the name of "Father!" but further utterance was prevented by the convulsive sobs that heaved her bosom. "Mary--woman!" cried the old man, trembling--"Call me not feyther--thou art none of mine--thou hast no feyther now--nor I a daughter--thou art a serpent that hath stung the bosom that cherished thee! Go to the fawning villain--the black-hearted sycophant that dragged thee from our arms--from our happy home to misery and pollution--go, and bless him for breaking thy poor old feyther's heart!"