The appearance of the good old man was much changed for the worse.  His face was paler and more emaciated than when we last described it.  His chin almost rested on his breast, and his aged-looking hands were worn away to skin and bone.  Still there was the same dignity about him as ever, only that the traces of age and illness gave to it something that was still more venerable and impressive.  Like some portrait, by an old master, time, whilst it mellowed and softened the colors, added that depth and truthfulness of character by which the value I is at once known.  He was sitting in an arm-chair, with a pillow for his head to rest upon when he wished it; and on his son’s entrance he asked him to wheel it round nearer the centre of the room, and let down the window.

“I hope you are better this morning, my lord?” inquired Dunroe.

“John,” said he in reply, “I cannot say that I am better, but I can that I am worse.”

“I am sorry to hear that, my lord,” replied the other, “the season is remarkably fine, and the air mild and cheerful.”

“I would much rather the cheerfulness were here,” replied his father, putting his wasted hand upon his heart; “but I did not ask you here to talk about myself on this occasion, or about my feelings.  Miss Gourlay has consented to marry you, I know.”

“She has, my lord.”

“Well, I must confess I did her father injustice for a time.  I ascribed his extraordinary anxiety for this match less to any predilection of hers—­for I thought it was otherwise—­than to his ambition.  I am glad, however, that it is to be a marriage, although I feel you are utterly unworthy of her; and if I did not hope that her influence may in time, and in a short time, too, succeed in bringing about a wholesome reformation in your life and morals, I would oppose it still as far as lay in my power.  It is upon this subject I wish to speak with you.”

Lord Dunroe bowed with an appearance of all due respect, but at the same time wished in his heart that Norton could be present to hear the lecture which he had so correctly prognosticated, and to witness the ability with which he should bamboozle the old peer.

“I assure you, my lord,” he replied, “I am very willing and anxious to hear and be guided by everything you shall say.  I know I have been wild—­indeed, I am very sorry for it; and if it will satisfy you, my lord, I will add, without hesitation, that it is time I should turn over a new leaf—­hem!”

“You have, John, been not merely wild—­for wildness I could overlook without much severity—­but you have been profligate in morals, profligate in expenditure, and profligate in your dealings with those who trusted in your integrity.  You have been intemperate; you have been licentious; you have been dishonest; and as you have not yet abandoned any one of these frightful vices, I look upon your union with Miss Gourlay as an association between pollution and purity.”