Kathleen’s refusal to dance, at the kemp, with Hycy Burke, drew down upon her the loud and vehement indignation of her parents, both of whom looked upon a matrimonial alliance with the Burkes as an object exceedingly desirable, and such as would reflect considerable credit on themselves.  Gerald Cavanagh and his wife were certainly persons of the strictest integrity and virtue.  Kind, charitable, overflowing with hospitality, and remarkable for the domestic virtues and affections in an extraordinary degree, they were, notwithstanding, extremely weak-minded, and almost silly, in consequence of an over-weening anxiety to procure “great matches” for their children.  Indeed it may be observed, that natural affection frequently assumes this shape in the paternal heart, nor is the vain ambition confined to the Irish peasant alone.  On the contrary, it may be seen as frequently, if not more so, in the middle and higher classes, where it has ampler scope to work, than in humbler and more virtuous life.  It is this proud and ridiculous principle which consigns youth, and beauty, and innocence, to the arms of some dissipated profligate of rank, merely because he happens to inherit a title which he disgraces.  There is, we would wager, scarcely an individual who knows the world, but is acquainted with some family laboring under this insane anxiety for connection.  Sometimes it is to be found on the paternal side, but, like most of those senseless inconsistencies which entail little else than ridicule or ruin, and sometimes both, upon those who are the object of them, it is, for the most part, a female attribute.

Such as it is, however, our friend, Gerald Cavanagh, and his wife—­who, by the way, bore the domestic sceptre in all matters of importance—­both possessed it in all its amplitude and vigor.  When the kemp had been broken up that night, and the family assembled, Mrs. Cavanagh opened the debate in an oration of great heat and bitterness, but sadly deficient in moderation and logic.

“What on earth could you mane, Kathleen,” she proceeded, “to refuse dancin’ wid such a young man—­a gintleman I ought to say—­as Hycy Burke, the son of the wealthiest man in the whole parish, barring the gentry?  Where is the girl that wouldn’t bounce at him?—­that wouldn’t lave a single card unturned to secure him?  Won’t he have all his father’s wealth?—­won’t he have all his land when the ould man dies? and indeed it’s he that will live in jinteel style when he gets everything into his own hands, as he ought to do, an’ not go dhramin’ an’ dhromin’ about like his ould father, without bein’ sartin whether he’s alive or not.  He would be something for you, girl, something to turn out wid, an’ that one could feel proud out of; but indeed, Kathleen, as for pride and decency, you never had as much o’ them as you ought, nor do you hold your head as high as many another girl in your place would do.  Deed and throth I’m vexed at you, and ashamed of you, to go for to hurt his feelins as you did, widout either rhyme or raison.”