“You seem to know a great deal about his affairs.”

“He told me all, months ago—­before there was any dream of this.  And, my dear,” she went on, relapsing into her usual arch tone, “there is no fear but his uncle will be glad enough to patronise him again, when he finds that he has married a viscount’s sister.”

Scoutbush laughed.  “You scheming little Irish rogue!  But I won’t!  I’ve said it, and I won’t.  It’s enough to have one sister married to a poor poet, without having another married to a poor parson.  Oh! what have I done that I should be bothered in this way?  Isn’t it bad enough to be a landlord, and to have an estate, and be responsible for a lot of people that will die of the cholera, and have to vote in the house about a lot of things I don’t understand, or anybody else, I believe, but that, over and above, I must be the head of the family, and answerable to all the world for whom my mad sisters many?  I won’t, I say!”

“Then I shall just go and marry without your leave!  I’m of age, you know, and my fortune’s my own; and then we shall come in as the runaway couples do in a play, while you sit there in your dressing-gown as the stern father—­Won’t you borrow a white wig for the occasion, my lord?—­ And we shall fall down on our knees so,”—­and she put herself in the prettiest attitude in the world,—­“and beg your blessing—­please forgive us this time, and we’ll never do so any more!  And then you will turn your face away, like the baron in the ballad,—­

  ’And brushed away the springing tear
  He proudly strove to hide,’

Et cetera, et cetera,—­Finish the scene for yourself, with a ’Bless ye, my children; bless ye!’”

“Go along, and marry the cat if you like!  You are mad; and I am mad; and all the world’s mad, I think.”

“There,” she said, “I knew that he would be a good boy at last!” And she sprang up, threw her arms round his neck, and, to his great astonishment, burst into the most violent fit of crying.

“Good gracious, Valencia! do be reasonable!  You’ll go into a fit, or somebody will hear you!  You know how I hate a scene.  Do be good, there’s a darling!  Why didn’t you tell me at first how much you wished for it, and I would have said yes in a moment.”

“Because I didn’t know myself,” cried she passionately.  “There, I will be good, and love you better than all the world, except one.  And if you let those horrid Russians hurt you, I will hate you as long as I live, and be miserable all my life afterwards.”

“Why, Valencia, do you know, that sounds very like a bull?”

“Am I not a wild Irish girl?” said she, and hurried out, leaving Scoutbush to return to his flies.

She bounded into Lucia’s room, there to pour out a bursting heart—­and stopped short.

Lucia was sitting on the bed, her shawl and bonnet tossed upon the floor, her head sunk on her bosom, her arms sunk by her side.