cipline, so
that when I marry Margaret Alison, nobody will be surprised at my being
read out of meeting. I shall soon be twenty-five, father, and this thing
has gone on about as long as I can bear it. I must decide to be either a
man or a milksop."

The color rose to Henry Donnelly's cheeks, and his eyes flashed, but he
showed no signs of anger. He moved to De Courcy's side and laid his hand
upon his shoulder.

"Patience, my boy!" he said. "It's the old blood, and I might have known
it would proclaim itself. Suppose I were to shut my eyes to thy ridings,
and thy merry-makings, and thy worldly company. So far I might go; but
the girl is no mate for thee. If O'Neil is alive, we are sure to hear
from him soon; and in three years, at the utmost, if the Lord favors
us, the end will come. How far has it gone with thy courting? Surely,
surely, not too far to withdraw, at least under the plea of my
prohibition?"

De Courcy blushed, but firmly met his father's eyes. "I have spoken
to her," he replied, "and it is not the custom of our family to break
plighted faith."

"Thou art our cross, not Sylvia. Go thy ways now. I will endeavor to
seek for guidance."

"Sylvia," said the father, when De Courcy had left the room, "what is to
be the end of this?"

"Unless we hear from O'Neil, father, I am afraid it cannot be prevented.
De Courcy has been changing for a year past; I am only surprised that
you did not sooner notice it. What I said in jest has become serious
truth; he has already half forgotten. We might have expected, in the
beginning, that one of two things would happen: either he would become
a plodding Quaker farmer or take to his present courses. Which would be
worse, when this life is over,--if that time ever comes?"

Sylvia sighed, and there was a weariness in her voice which did not
escape her father's ear. He walked up and down the room with a troubled
air. She sat down, took the guitar upon her lap, and began to sing
the verse, commencing, "Erin, my country, though sad and forsaken,"
when--perhaps opportunely--Susan Donnelly entered the room.

"Eh, lass!" said Henry, slipping his arm around his wife's waist, "art
thou tired yet? Have I been trying thy patience, as I have that of
the children? Have there been longings kept from me, little rebellions
crushed, battles fought that I supposed were over?"

"Not by me, Henry," was her cheerful answer. "I have never have been
happier than in these quiet ways with the