"Why not say a third?" asked my father, sadly. "Don't you know,
Bainrothe, I am a fatal upas-tree to the wives of my bosom? See how it
has been already."

"Better luck next time. Now, there is the Widow Stanbury, willing and
waiting, you know, and a dozen others."

I turned a flashing eye upon him that silenced him.

"You know better than that," I said, in suppressed tones, hoarse with
anger. "Better let that subject rest hereafter, unless, indeed, your
object is feud with me. You shall not slander my friends with impunity,
nor must you come any longer between me and them and my father."

I spoke, for his ear alone, and waited for no reply. I understood his
game by this time, as he did mine.

"His son, indeed!" I murmured, with a scornful lip, as I found myself
alone. "I would cut off my right hand before I would give it to a
Bainrothe," and I scoffed at him bitterly in the depths of my resentful
Judaic heart.

About this time I passed through a painful trial. It was autumn, and
early fires of wood had been kindled in the chambers; more, so far, for
the sake of cheerfulness than warmth. Mabel was playing on the hearth of
her nursery preparatory to going to bed, and I was in the adjoining
room, my own chamber, making an evening toilet, for Evelyn expected a
party of young visitors that night, and my presence had been requested.

Mrs. Austin, it seemed, had left the room for one moment, when a cry