ed at her husband with eyes full of
rebuke. "It'll be bad for you that you resist in this way. The saints
will bear it in mind, and will not forgive you, and when you cry out
for them to deliver you from Purgatory, they will not deliver you.
You're a wicked man, a scoffer and a blasphemer! Alas, alas, what will
become of you?"

"Do you really think so, really?" Mr. Tiralla felt somewhat
disconcerted, her great earnestness bewildered him, and he moved
restlessly backwards and forwards on his chair. If she were right? No,
it was nothing but romantic nonsense. He was still in possession of his
senses, and he would never, no never, allow any one to persuade his
little girl, his dear Roeschen, who was to bring him so much happiness
in this life--healthy grandchildren and all kinds of good things--to go
into a convent. Yes, persuade her, that was the word. Sophia had always
been too pious, he was sorry to say, and the priest, and the
schoolmaster? "To the devil with you all!" he shouted, gaining courage
at the sound of his own voice. "May he be struck with lightning who
dares contradict me, when I say she's to be married as soon as
possible. Nobody can be too young for that. And I'll procure her a
nice husband. Then she'll grow happy and buxom, and when she gets a
little boy on her lap--such a wee fellow who kicks about and wants
nursing--then she'll not get any more of those stupid fancies. The Holy
Virgin, the Holy Virgin! we pray to our Lady. But when Rosa is a mother
herself, she'll have other things to think of." He laughed, [Pg 127]
his anger had almost disappeared again at the beautiful prospect which
lay before him.

At that moment Mrs. Tiralla gave a shrill scream. "There, you
see--there, you see what you've done."

Rosa had given a deep, plaintive sigh, her head had drooped forward
like a withered flower, and she would have fallen from her chair if the
schoolmaster had not caught her in his arms. She had fainted.

Mr. Tiralla was frightened to death. Alas, alas, what had he done? He
would have liked to beat himself, to pull off his head. He struck his
forehead with his clenched hand and called himself the most
unflattering names he could think of, "fool, blockhead, idiot." He
shouted for Marianna, roared for water, ordered Tokay--no, gin--wanted
to pour it down the girl's throat, spilt it all over her, then called
himself once more all kinds of names and almost wept.

They had pushed him away from his daughter