father in amazement; "what business can Fardorougha Donovan have with this family, John?"

"About our childhre," replied the miser ; "about my son and your daughther."

"An' what about them," enquired Mrs. O'Brien ; " do you dar to mintion them in the same day together?"

Why not," said the miser; "ay, an' on the same night, too.”

"Upon my reputaytion, Mr. O'Donovan, you're extramely kind-now be a little more so, and let us undherstand you," said the Bodagh.

"Poor Una," thought John; "all's lost; he will get himself kicked out to a certainty."

"I think it's time we got them married," replied Fardorongha; "the sooner it's done the betther and the safer for both o' them-espeshally for

the colleen."

shouted Mrs. O'Brien, in a state of most dignified offence; "Damho orth, you ould knave, is it the son of a misert that has fleeced an' robbed the whole counthry, side that we 'ud let our daughther, that resaved the finish to her edication in a Dubling boordin' school marry wid ?—Vich na koiah this day!"

You had no sich scruple yourself, ma'am," replied the bitter usurer; "when you bounced at the son of the ould Bodagh Buie, an' every one knows what he was."

"He!" said the good woman; "an' is it runnin' up comparishments betuxt yourself an' him you are afther? Why, Saint Pether wouldn't thrive on your money, you nager."

66

Maybe Saint Pether thruv an worse but have'nt you thruv as well on the Bodagh's, as if it had been honestly come by; I defy you an' the world both-to say that ever I tuck a penny from any one, more than my right. Lay that to the mimory of the ould Bodagh, an' see if it'll fit. It's no light guinea, any how."

Had Fardorougha been a man of ordinary standing and character in the country, from whom an insult could be taken, he would no doubt have been by a very summary process expelled the parlour. The history of his que rulous and irascible temper, however, was so well known, and his offensive eccentricity of manner, a matter of such established fact, that the father and son, on glancing at each other, were seized with the same spirit, and both gave way to an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

Is it a laughin' stock you're makin’ of it," said Mrs. O'Brien, highly indignant.

66

Faith, achora, it may be no laughin' stock afther all," replied the Bodagh.

"I think, mother," observed John, "that you and my father had better treat the matter with more seriousness. Connor O'Donovan is a young man not to be despised by any person at all near his own class of life who regards the peace and welfare of a daughter.— His character stands very high; indeed, in every way unimpeachable."

The bitter scowl which had sat upon the small dark features of Fardorougha, when replying to the last attack of Mrs. O'Brien, passed away as John spoke.The old man turned hastily round, and surveying the eulogist of his son, said,

"God bless you, asthore, for thim words; and they're thrue-thrue as the

gospel; arrah what are you both so proud of? I defy you to get the aquil of my son in the barony of Lisnamona, either for face, figure or timper? I say he's fit to be a husband for as good a girl as ever stood in your daughther's shoes; an' from what I hear of her, she's as good a girl as ever the Almighty put breath in; God bless you, young man! you're a credit yourself to any paa

rents."

"An' we have nothin' to say aginst your son, nor aginst your wife aither," replied the Bodagh; "an' if your own name was as clear-if you wor looked upon as they are-tut, I'm spaking nonsense! How do I know whether ever your son and my daughter spoke a word to one another or not."

"I'll go bail Oona never opened her lips to him," said her mother; "I'll go bail she had more spirit."

"An' I'll go bail she can't live widout him, an' will have him whether you like it or not," said Fardorougha.

"Mother," observed John, "will you and my father come into the next room for a minute-I wish to say a word or two to each of you; and will you, Fardorougha, have the goodness to sit here till we return?"

"Devil a notion," replied O'Donovan, "I have of stirrin' my foot till the thing's settled one way or other."

"Now," said young O'Brien, when they had got into the back parlour, "it's right that you both should know to what length the courtship between Una and Connor O'Donovan has gone." "Coortship! Vich na hoiah! sure she wouldn't go to coort wid the son o' that ould schamer."

"I'm beginning to fear that it's too thrue," observed the Bodagh; "and if she has but let us hear John."

"It's perfectly true, indeed, mother, that she has," said the son. "Yes, and they are both this moment pledged, betrothed, promised, solemnly promised, to each other; and in my opinion the old man within is acting a more honourable part than either of you give him credit for."

"Well, well, well," exclaimed the mother; "who afther that would ever thrust a daughter? The girl that we rared up as tindher as a chicking, to go to throw herself away upon the son of ould Fardorougha Donovan, the misert. Confusion to the ring ever he'll put an her!

I'd see her stretched first." "I agree with you in that, Bridget," said the husband; "if it was only to

Indeed, father, I have; and it is much to her credit that she was candid enough to place such confinence in her brother."

"Pledged and promised to one another! Bridget, who could believe this ?"

"Believe it! I don't believe it--it's only a schame of the hussey to get him. Oh, thin, Queen of heaven, this day, but it's black news to us!"

John," said the father, "tell Una to come down to us."

"Father, I doubt that's rather a trying task for her. I wish you wouldn't insist."

"Go off, sir; she must come down immadiately. I'll have it from her own lips, too."

Without another word of remonstrance the son went to bring her down. When the brother and sister entered the room, O'Brien still paced the floor. He stood, and turning his eyes upon his daughter with severe displeasure, was about to speak, but he appeared to have lost the power of utterance; and after one or two ineffectual attempts, the big tears fairly rolled down his cheeks.

See, see," said the mother, "see what you have brought us to. Is it thrue that you're promised to Fardorougha's son ?"

Una tottered over to a chair, and the blood left her cheeks; her lips became dry, and she gasped for breath.

"Why don't you think it worth your while to answer me?" continued the mother.

The daughter gave a look of deep distress and supplication at her brother; but when she perceived her father in tears, her head sank down upon her bosom.

For a long time she lay in that friendly trance; for such, in truth it was to a delicate being, subjected to an ordeal so painful as that she was called upon to pass through. We have, indeed, remarked that there is in the young, especially in those of the softer sex, a feeling of terror, and shame, and confusion, when called upon by their parents to disclose a forbidden passion, that renders its avowal perhaps the most formidable task which the young heart can undergo. It is a fearful trial for the youthful, and one which parents ought to conduct with surpassing delicacy and tenderness, unless they wish to drive the ingenuous spirit into the first steps of falsehood and deceit.

"Father," said John, “I think you may rest satisfied with what you witness; and I am sure it cannot make

you or my mother happy to see poor

Una miserable."

Una, who had been during the greater part of her swoon supported in her weeping and alarmed mother's arms, now opened her eyes, and after casting an affrighted look about the room, she hid her face in her mother's boson, and exclaimed, as distinctly as the violence of sobbing grief would permit her:

Oh, mother dear, have pity on me; bring me up stairs and I will tell you.”

66

I do, I do pity you," said the mother, kissing her; "I know you'll be a good girl, yet Oona."

66

Una," said her father, placing his hand gently on her shoulder, "was I ever harsh to you, or did I

"Father dear," she returned, interrupting him, "I would have told you and my mother, but that I was afraid."

There was something so utterly innocent and artless in this reply, that each of the three persons present felt sensibly affected by its extreme and childlike simplicity.

"Don't be afraid of me, Una," continued the Bodagh, "but answer me truly, like a good girl; and I swear upon my reputaytion, that I won't be angry. Do you love the son of this Fardorougha?"

Not, father, because he's Fardorougha's son," said Una, whose face was still hid in her mother's bosom; "I would rather he wasn't."

"But you do love him ?" "For three years he has scarcely been out of my mind."

Something that might be termed a smile crossed the countenance of the Bodagh at this intimation.

"God help you for a foolish child," said he; "you're a poor counsellor when left to defend your own cause."

"She won't defend it by a falsehood, at all events," observed her trustworthy and affectionate brother.

"and I did her wrong awhile ago, to say "No, she wouldn't," said the mother; that she'd schame any thing about it."

"And are you and Connor O'Donovan promised to aich other?" enquired the father again.

"But it wasn't I that proposed the promise," returned Una.

“Oh, the desperate villain,” exclaimed her father, "to be guilty of such a thing; "but you took the promise Una-you did-you did I needn't ask."

"No," replied Una.

"No!" re-echoed the father; "then you did not give the promise."

"I mean," she rejoined, "that you needn't ask."

"Oh, faith, that alters the case extramely. Now Una, this all this promising that has past betune you and Connor O'Donovan, is mere folly. If you prove to be the good obadient girl that I hope you are, you'll put him out of your head, and thin you can give back to one another whatever promises you made.”

This was succeeded by a silence of more than a minute. Una at length arose, and with a composed energy of manner, that was evident by her sparkling eye and bloodless cheek, she approached her father, and calmly kneeling down, said slowly but firmly:

"Father, if nothing else can satisfy you, I will give back my promise; but then, father, it will break my heart, for I know-I feel-how I love him, and how I'm loved by him."

"I'll get you a better husband,” replied her father" far more wealthy and more respectable than he is."

"I'll give back the promise," said she; "but the man is not living, except Connor O'Donovan, that will ever call me wife. More wealthy! more respectable!-oh, it was only himself I loved. Father, I'm on my knees before you, and before my mother. I have only one request to make-ob, don't break your daughter's heart!"

"God direct us," exclaimed her mother; "it's hard to know how to act. If it would go so hard upon her, sure

"Amen," said her husband; "may God direct us to the best. I'm sure God knows," he continued, now much affected, "that I would rather break

my own heart than your's, Una. Get up, dear-rise. John, how would you advise us?"

“I don't see what serious objection after all," replied the son, "either you or my mother can have to Connor O'Donovan. He is every way worthy of her, if he is equal to his character; and as for wealth, I have often heard it said that his father was a richer man than yourself."

"Afther all," said the mother, "she might be very well wid him."

I'll tell you what I'll do then," said the Bodagh "let us see the ould man himself, and if he settles his son dacently in life, as he can do if he wishes, why I won't see that poor, foolish, innocent girl breaking her heart."

Una, who had sat with her face still averted, now ran to her father, and throwing her arms about his neck, wept aloud, but said nothing.

66

Ay, ay," said the latter, it's very fine now that you have every thing your own way, you girsha; but, sure, you're all the daughter we have, achora, and it would be too bad not to let you have a little of your own opinion in the choice of a husband. Now go up stairs, or where you plase, till we see what can be done with Fardorougha himself."

With smiling face and glistening eyes Una passed out of the room, scarcely sensible whether she walked, ran, or flew, while the others went to renew the discussion with Fardorougha. Well," said the miser, “you found out, I suppose, that she can't do widout him ?"

64

"That shows your own sinse," said the old man. Now what fortune will you portion your colleen wid ?";

"That depinds upon what you'll do for your son," returned the Bodagh. "And that depends upon what you'll do for your daughter,” replied the sagacious old miser.

"At this rate we're not likely to agree."

"Nothin's asier; you have only to spake out; besides it's your business, bein' the colleen's father."

"Try him, and name something fair," whispered John.

"If I give her a farm of thirty acres of good land, stocked and all, what will you do for Connor?"

"More than that, five times over; I'll give him all I have. An' now, when will we marry them? Throth it was best to make things clear,” added the knave, "and undherstand one another at wanst. When will we marry them ?”

"Not till you say out openly and fairly the exact sum of money you'll lay down on the nail-an' that before ever a ring goes upon them."

"Give it up, acushla," said the wife, "you see there's no schrewin' a promise out of him, let alone a penny."

"What 'ud yees have me do ?" said the old man, raising his voice. Won't he have all I'm worth? who else is to have it? Am I to make a beggar of myself to plase you? Can't they live on your farm till I die, an' thin it'll all come to them?"

"And no thanks to you for that, Fardorougha," said the Bodagh. “No, no; I'll never buy a pig in a poke. If you won't act ginerously by your son, go home, in the name of goodness, and let us hear no more about it."

Why, why?" said the miser, "are yees mad to miss what I can lave him? If you knew how much it is, you'd snap-; but, God help me, what am I sayin'? I'm poorer than any body thinks. I am-1 am; an' will starve among you all, if God hasn't sed it. Do you think I don't love my son as well, an' a thousand times better than you do your daughter? God alone sees how my heart's in him-in my own Connor, that never gave me a sore heart-my brave, my beautiful boy!"

He paused, and the scalding tears here ran down his shrunk and furrowed cheeks, whilst he wrung his hands, started to his feet, and looked about him like a man encompassed by dangers that threatened instant destruction.

"If you love your son so well," said John, mildly, " why do you grudge to share your wealth with him? It is but natural and it is your duty."

"Natural! what's natural?-to give away is it to love him you mane? It is, it's unnatural to give it away. He's the best son-the best-what do you mane, I say?-let me alonelet me alone-I could give him my blood, my blood-to sich a boy; but, you want to kill me-you want to kill me, an' thin you'll get all; but he'll cross you, never fear-my boy will save mehe's not tired o' me-he'd give up fifty girls sooner than see a hair of his father's head injured-so do your best, while I have Connor I'm not afraid of yees. Thanks be to God that sent him," he exclaimed, dropping suddenly on his knees" oh, thanks be to God that sent him to comfort an' protect his father from the schames and villany of them that 'ud bring him to starvation for their own ends."

"Father," said John, in a low tone, "this struggle between avarice and natural affection is awful. See how his small grey eyes glare, and the froth rises white to his thin shrivelled lips. What is to be done?"

"Fardorougha," said the Bodagh, "it's over; don't distress yourself keep your money-there will be no match between our childre."

Why? why won't there?" he screamed "why won't there, I say? Haven't you enough for them until I die? Would you see your child breakin' her heart? Bodagh, you have no nather in you-no bowels for your colleen dhas. But I'll spake for her I'll argue wid you till this time tomorrow, or I'll make you show feelin' to her-an' if you don't-if you

don't-"

"Wid the help o' God, the man's as mad as a March hare," observed Mrs. O'Brien, "and there's no use in losin' breath wid him."

66

"If it's not insanity," said John, "I know not what it is."

"Young man," proceeded Fardorougha, who evidently paid no attention to what the mother and son said, being merely struck by the voice of the latter "young man, you're kind, you have sinse and feelin'-spake to your father-don't let him destroy his child -don't ax him to starve me, that never did him harm. He loves you-he loves you, for he can't but love you—sure, I know how I love my own darlin' boy; oh, spake to him-here I go down on my

two knees to you, to beg, as you hope to see God in heaven, that you'll make him not brake his daughter's heart! She's your own sister-there's but the two of yees, an' oh, don't desart her in this throuble-this heavy, heavy, throuble!"

"I won't interfere farther in it," replied the young man, who, however, felt disturbed and anxious in the extreme.

"Mrs. O'Brien," said he, turning imploringly, and with a wild haggard look to the Bodagh's wife, "I'm turnin' to you-you're her mother-oh think, think."

"I'll think no more about it," she replied. "You're mad, an' thank God, we know it. Of coorse it'll run in the family, for which reasing my daughter 'ill never be joined to the son of a madman."

He then turned as a last resource to O'Brien himself." Bodagh, Bodagh, I say," here his voice rose to a frightful pitch, " I enthrate, I ordher, I command you to listen to me! Marry them-don't kill your daughter, “an' don't, don't, don't dare to kill my son. If you do I'll curse you till the marks of your feet will scorch the ground you tread on. Oh," he exclaimed, bis voice now sinking, and his reason awaking, apparently from exhaustion, “what is come over me? what am I sayin'?— but it's all for my son, my son." He then rose, sat down, and for more than twenty minutes wept like an infant, and sobbed, and sighed, as if his heart would break.

A feeling very difficult to be described, hushed his amazed auditory into silence; they felt something like pity towards the unfortunate old man, as well as respect for that affection which struggled with such moral heroism against the frightful vice that attempted to subdue this last surviving virtue in the breast of the miser.

On his getting calm, they spoke to him kindly, but in firm and friendly terms communicated their ultimate de termination, that in consequence of his declining to make an adequate provision for his son, the marriage could by no means take place. He then got his hat, and attempted to reach the road which led to the little lawn, but so complete was his abstraction, and so exhausted his faculties, that it was not without John's assistance he could reach the gate which lay before his eyes. He first turned out of the walk to the right, then crossed over to the