“O,” exclaimed the son, in surprise, “is that the case?”

“It is,” she replied, “and yet you see how I am treated.”

“I was not aware of that, my dear mother,” responded worthy Harry.  “That alters the case entirely.  Why, Lindsay, in these circumstances, ought to put his hands under your feet; so ought they all I think.  Well, my dear mother, of one thing I can assure you, no matter how they may treat you, calculate firmly upon my support and protection; make yourself sure of that.  But, now, about Miss Milk-and-curds—­what do you think of my project?”

“I have been frequently turning it over in my mind, Harry, since the morning you praised her so violently, and I think, as you cannot get the property without the girl, you must only take her with it.  The notion of its going into the hands of strangers would drive me mad.”

“Well, then, we understand each other; I have your sanction for the courtship.”

“You have; but I tell you again, I loathe her as I do poison.  I never can forgive her the art with which she wheedled that jotter-headed old sinner, your uncle, out of twelve hundred a year.  Unless it returns to the family, may my bitter malediction fall upon her and it.”

“Well, never mind, my dear mother, leave her to me—­I shall have the girl and the property—­but by hook or crook, the property.  I shall ride over there, now, and it will not be my fault, if I don’t tip both her and them the saccharine.”

“By the way, though, Harry, now that I think of it, I’m afraid you’ll have opposition.”

“Opposition!  How is that?”

“It is said there is a distant relation of theirs, a gentleman named O’Connor, a Ferdora O’Connor, I think, who, it is supposed, is likely to be successful there; but, by the way, are you aware that they are Catholics?”

“As to that, my dear mother, I don’t care a fig for her religion; my religion is her property, or rather will be so when I get it.  The other matter, however, is a thing I must look to—­I mean the rivalry; but on that, too, we shall put our heads together, and try what can be done.  I am not very timid; and the proverb says, you know, a faint heart never won a fair lady.”

Our readers may perceive, from the spirit of the above conversation, that the son was worthy of the mother, and the mother of the son.  The latter, however, had, at least, some command over his temper, and a great deal of dexterity and penetration besides; whilst the mother, though violent, was clumsy in her resentments, and transparent in her motives.  Short as Woodward’s residence in the family was, he saw at a glance that the abuse she heaped upon her husband and children was nothing more nor less than deliberate falsehood.  This, however, to him was a matter of perfect indifference.  He was no great advocate of truth himself, whenever he found that his interests or his passions could be more effectually promoted by falsehood; although he