“I am not disposed to make a jest of your happiness, Miss Gourlay.”

“Nor of my misery, papa.  You surely cannot but know—­nay, you cannot but feel—­that a marriage between me and Lord Dunroe is impossible.  His profligacy is so gross, that his very name is indelicate in the mouth of a modest woman.  And is this the man to whom you would unite your only child and daughter?  But I trust you still jest, sir.  As a man, and a gentleman, much less as a parent, you would not think seriously of making such a proposal to me?”

“All very fine sentiment—­very fine stuff and nonsense, madam; the young man is a little wild—­somewhat lavish in expenditure—­and for the present not very select in the company he keeps; but he is no fool, as they say, and we all know how marriage reforms a man, and thoroughly sobers him down.”

“Often at the expense, papa,” she replied with tears, “of many a broken heart.  That surely, is not a happy argument; for, perhaps, after all, I should, like others, become but a victim to my ineffectual efforts at his reformation.”

“There is one thing, Miss Gourlay, you are certain to become, and that is, Countess of Cullamore, at his father’s death.  Remember this; and. remember also, that, victim or no victim, I am determined you shall marry him.  Yes, you shall marry him,” he added, stamping with vehemence, “or be turned a beggar upon the world.  Become a victim, indeed!  Begone, madam, to your room, and prepare for that obedience which your mother never taught you.”

She rose as he spoke, and with a graceful inclination of her head, silently withdrew.

This dialogue caused both father and daughter much pain.  Certain portions of it, especially near the close, were calculated to force upon the memory of each, analogies that were as distressing to the warm-hearted girl, as they were embarrassing to her parent.  The truth was, that her mother, then a year dead, had indeed become a victim to the moral profligacy of a man in whose character there existed nothing whatsoever to compensate her for the utter absence of domestic affection in all its phases.  His principal vices, so far as they affected the peace of his family, were a brutal temper, and a most scandalous dishonesty in pecuniary transactions, especially in his intercourse with his own tenantry and tradesmen.  Of moral obligation he seemed to possess no sense or impression whatever.  A single day never occurred in which he was not guilty of some most dishonorable violation of his word to the poor, and those who were dependent on him.  Ill-temper therefore toward herself, and the necessity of constantly witnessing a series of vile and unmanly frauds upon a miserable scale, together with her incessant efforts to instil into his mind some slight principle of common integrity, had, during an unhappy life, so completely harassed a mind naturally pure and gentle, and a constitution never strong, that, as her daughter hinted, and as every one intimate with the family knew, she literally fell a victim to the vices we have named, and the incessant anxiety they occasioned her.  These analogies, then, when unconsciously alluded to by his daughter, brought tears to her eyes, and he felt that the very grief she evinced was an indirect reproach to himself.