“Well, well, my dear,” said my mother, impatiently; “do you know who Lord Glenfallen is?”

“I do, madam,” said I rather timidly, for I dreaded an altercation with my mother.

“Well, dear, and what frightens you?” continued she; “are you afraid of a title?  What has he done to alarm you? he is neither old nor ugly.”

I was silent, though I might have said, “He is neither young nor handsome.”

“My dear Fanny,” continued my mother, “in sober seriousness you have been most fortunate in engaging the affections of a nobleman such as Lord Glenfallen, young and wealthy, with first-rate, yes, acknowledged first-rate abilities and of a family whose influence is not exceeded by that of any in Ireland—­of course you see the offer in the same light that I do—­indeed I think you must.”

This was uttered in no very dubious tone.  I was so much astonished by the suddenness of the whole communication that I literally did not know what to say.

“You are not in love?” said my mother, turning sharply, and fixing her dark eyes upon me, with severe scrutiny.

“No, madam,” said I, promptly; horrified, as what young lady would not have been, at such a query.

“I am glad to hear it,” said my mother, dryly.  “Once, nearly twenty years ago, a friend of mine consulted me how he should deal with a daughter who had made what they call a love match, beggared herself, and disgraced her family; and I said, without hesitation, take no care of her, but cast her off; such punishment I awarded for an offence committed against the reputation of a family not my own; and what I advised respecting the child of another, with full as small compunction I would do with mine.  I cannot conceive anything more unreasonable or intolerable than that the fortune and the character of a family should be marred by the idle caprices of a girl.”

She spoke this with great severity, and paused as if she expected some observation from me.  I, however, said nothing.

“But I need not explain to you, my dear Fanny,” she continued, “my views upon this subject; you have always known them well, and I have never yet had reason to believe you likely, voluntarily, to offend me, or to abuse or neglect any of those advantages which reason and duty tell you should be improved—­come hither, my dear, kiss me, and do not look so frightened.  Well, now, about this letter, you need not answer it yet; of course you must be allowed time to make up your mind; in the mean time I will write to his lordship to give him my permission to visit us at Ashtown—­good night, my love.”