ntatives of the old name now."

"And the sooner there's none the better. There is no excuse for the
likes of you being alive. I'd like to assist in the extermination of
your family by putting you in the boiling copper on washing day. That
would give you a taste of your deserts," raged the girl.

She was speaking without restraint in the light of the high demands of
crude, impetuous, merciless youth. I had once felt as she did, but now
I could see the cruel train of conditions behind certain characters
forcing them into different positions, and in place of Dawn's
wholesome, justifiable, hot-headed rage against the likes of
Rooney-hyphen, I felt for him a contempt so immeasurable that it
almost toppled over and became pity.

Seeing the little sense of responsibility that is inculcated regarding
the laws of being, instead of being shocked at the familiarity of the
Rooney-Molyneux type of husband and father, I gave myself up to
agreeable surprise owing to the large number of noble and worthy
parents I had discovered.

"The world does soil our minds and we soil it--
Time brings the tolerance that hides the truth,"

but Dawn had not yet sunk to the apathy engendered by experience and
familiarity. She adjudged the case on its merits, as it would be
handled by an administrator of the law--the common law we all must
keep. She did not imagine a network of exculpatory conditions or go
squinting round corners to draw it into line as an act for which
circumstances rather than the culprit were responsible; she gazed
straight and honestly and saw a crime.

"Dawn, you shameless hussy, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," said
her uncle.

"Oh yes, I'm well aware that any girl who says the straight truth
about the things that concern them most in life, _ought_ to be ashamed
of herself. They should hold their tongues except to flatter the men
who trample them in the dust,--that's the proper and _womanly_
attitude for a girl, I know," she said desperately.

"I'm sure this is uncalled for," simpered the hero of the act, rising
and showing signs of looking for his hat.

"You'd better run and tell your wife you've been insulted, poor little
dear!" said Dawn.

"Look!" said Andrew to me uneasily, "tell Dawn to dry up, will you;
she'll take no notice of me, an' if that feller goes home actin' the
goat I'll get the blame, an' he ain't drunk enough to be shut up. Blow
him, I say!"

"I'm sure," said Mr Rooney-Molyneux, who a